In Another Life
by Bernard O'Hare
Summary: On December 4th 2092, Steven Hay and Brendan Brady meet on a plane bound for Dublin. However, it is anything but love at first sight.
1. Chapter 1

After recent events on the show, I decided to write an AU fic depicting what might happen 'in the next life', if Brendan had died on the balcony.

**In Another Life **

**Date: ** December 4th 2092

You wake up from a dream you've had too many times before. In the dream you are standing at the bottom of a balcony with police surrounding you and a terrible feeling of dread in your stomach. Tears are streaming down your face as you cry out to a man standing on the edge of the balcony, pointing a gun at an army of police below. Your eyes meet his in that moment and you can feel your breath hitch in your throat, preventing you from crying out any more, even though all you want to do is run to this man. This man you don't even know, yet in the dream it feels like you can't go on living your life without him; like stopping this man from doing what he is about to do is imperative to your very existence on Earth. As your eyes disconnect, the man on the balcony pushes himself forward as if about to shoot and suddenly you hear a loud, ragged scream pierce through the noise and realize with a shock that this unholy yell is coming from your mouth.

Your body shakes and convulses, and before you can stop yourself you are running towards the bottom of the steps leading up to the balcony. Before you reach the steps you feel two strong arms pull you back and hold you fiercely to a strong chest. You feel the muscles in your arms tear and ache with the struggle, as you use all your weight to catapult yourself from whatever force is stopping you from reaching the steps where this man is standing. As you struggle, you hear a barrage of gunshots fire around you and with that sound you find your heart numb inside your chest as a cold wash floods your inside and turns your face to white. You twist into the arms that are holding you back and bury your face deep into the chest that holds you and you sob.

With a jolt you awaken. You look at the clock beside your bed and realize it's five minutes until your alarm is about to go off. Your whole body is buzzing with energy and your heart feels heavy in your chest as you switch off the impending alarm. You lie in bed and watch the ceiling, realizing with mild embarrassment that your cheeks are damp and cold. You touch the skin and pull away your fingers, which glisten against the pale morning light bursting through your window. Imagine, a twenty-three year old crying at a stupid dream?

Only this dream isn't stupid. You've had it on-and-off ever since your turned nineteen and every day you wake up with that same heavy feeling in your heart and the same tear-stains on your cheeks. Your wife, Amy, says she hears you crying out in your sleep sometimes. She insists that you should go to the doctor and get something to help, claiming that your suffering from anxiety or stress, but you impatiently tell her there's nothing to worry about.

You pull yourself from your bed and trudge into the small, porcelain white bathroom of your three-bedroom home and silently brush your teeth and relieve yourself. You then return to the bedroom and pull on a suit and tie and walk downstairs, where you eat breakfast with Amy and your daughter, Pauline, who you named after your Mother.

"I heard you mumbling last night," Amy chimes, "you had your nightmare again?"

"Yeah," you mutter, reading the newspaper, "like clockwork."

"I still think you should get some anxiety medication," she says distractedly, trying to spoon-feed Pauline ,whose sitting rosy-cheeked in her high chair, "it's not normal for a young guy to be reacting to dreams like that. It's been going on for ages!"

"Leave it, Amy," you glare over your paper.

"They work you too hard in that job," she murmurs, making it loud enough for you to hear, "I can't believe they asked you to fly to Dublin today, when they know you haven't had a day off in months."

"Just leave it, would you?" You raise your voice, "besides, I don't hear you complaining when I buy you expensive clothes and shoes."

Her eyes focus coldly on you and she sits up straight in her chair. You hate when she's like this. You can practically hear her shutting down. She used to be your best friend, once upon a time...now you barely even know her.

"That's not fair," she whispers, "you bought me that stuff for my birthday."

"Yeah, well all I'm saying is think before you speak," you mumble, then rise from your seat and grab your overnight bag, which is sitting by the stairs.

You walk back into the kitchen, kiss Pauline on her forehead and walk out the door with a curt 'Goodbye.'

The airport is a nightmare. You hate airports. You sit at your departure gate and read a gossip magazine that some teenage girl has left behind. The hot coffee resting on your knee burns the skin underneath your expensive trousers, but nothing hurts as much as the sting Amy's tone this morning has left on you. You feel guilty for lashing out at her. You know it's not her fault. Not her fault that she cares about you. Not her fault that you will never feel the same. Lately you've found it harder to hide from her your lack of interest. She's beginning to grow suspicious about your lack of advances towards her and your sudden disinterest in anything remotely sexual in regards to her. You don't even try to pretend any more. It's exhausting.

You hear a voice over the intercom to make your way to your departure gate and quietly you line up behind the other passengers. The line moves quickly and it doesn't take long before you are on the plane, putting your bags in the over head compartment and trying to find your seat. You look at your ticket number and scratch your head. The ticket says 'B3,' but you struggle to find the 'B' aisle. You're sure one doesn't exist, but when you ask the stewardess she laughs lightly and points to the seats you're directly in front of. Your cheeks colour. You're an idiot.

You throw yourself down into 'B3,' the window seat, and it's now that you allow yourself to be nervous. You feel an icy chill run through your heart as you look out the window at the wing, and suddenly you get the all-encompassing urge to pull yourself from the plane. You hate flying. Always have, always will. You reassure yourself that it's only a twenty minute flight to Dublin.

Suddenly you feel movement beside you, and with a sharp jolt you feel a huge body throw itself down on the seat next to yours. Your eyes widen as you watch the back of some dark-haired guy's head as he shuffles in his seat and tries to make himself comfortable. You roll your eyes and turn your head to look out the window. However, you're soon disturbed when you hear a rough, Dublin accent beside you say,

"Hey, kid, do ye mind closing the window? I want to get some shut eye."

You turn to face him, but his face is shielded by a pair of aviator sunglasses and a ghastly moustache. The corner of his mouth quirks as you stare at him and you see an eyebrow raise from behind his sunglasses as you continue to gawk,

"Want to take a picture?" he smirks, "might last you longer."

The quip is unoriginal, but he still manages to make you feel hot with embarrassment. You wordlessly pull down the window shield and fold your arms, mouth jutted out in a pout as you grind your teeth.

Asshole.

"Cheers," he mutters, "appreciate it."

The man folds his arms and buries himself deep down into his seat, reclining the chair to maximum level until you hear the people behind you whisper in complaint. The man ignores them. As the plane begin to pull out and head towards the runway, you find yourself idly taking in the gruff man sitting next to you. His eyes are still shielded by a pair of aviators, but the rest of him is sprawled out on the seat unapologetically. The man clearly knows how to ruffle feathers and has absolutely no regard for airplane etiquette. He's also dressed pretty shabbily, like some sort of thug or low life. He's wearing a black t-shirt and leather jacket, tight black jeans and a pair of dark, lace-up boots. His favourite colour seems to be black.

You look down at your own attire in comparison. Beige suit, white shirt, grey tie...when did you become so dull? You remember a time when you used to be young; wearing tracksuits and t-shirts, getting into fights and drinking nights away. That is until you met Amy and she encouraged you to be better; get a job, follow your dreams. Now you're a success. It took next to no time for you to work your way up in business, because you were savvy and streetwise and didn't take bullshit from anyone. You were happy. At least, you thought you were. What else could happiness be if it wasn't this? A family, a job, success? That's surely all the happiness there is.

So why does it not feel like enough?

You drop your head and turn to look out the window. You can see the runway and suddenly the plane comes to a stop. You feel your heart beat rapidly in your chest as the engines roar and the sound batters your eardrums. You shift in your seat, very uncomfortable all of a sudden. No matter how many times you had to fly for work, you hated it. Couldn't get used to the loud noise or the feeling of being so high in the air that the only way to go is down.

As the engines roar in your ears, your body is tense and you rest your arms on the arm rests and squeeze the ends so tight you feel like you might crush them. You silently whisper a prayer to yourself and close your eyes, praying to whatever God there is to let you reach the emerald isle alive. You're not a very spiritual person, but sometimes you feel like it's all you have.

As the plane begins to pick up speed, you find yourself looking to the passenger beside you. He's still asleep. You wonder how the Hell he can sleep through the loudest part of the journey. The thought of sleeping through take-off was impossible to you, but this man seems like the sort who could sleep through anything.

You turn to look out the window, which you'd pulled open for take-off, and watch as the wings slowly pull the plane from the ground and into the air. Below you can see houses and fields, like tiny figures in a doll house, and you slowly feel yourself relax. You let out a breath, close your eyes and turn to face the front of the plane.

Suddenly you hear a low cough emanate from beside you. You turn around to look at the man next to you and realize that he's woken up. In fact, not only has he woken up, be he's staring at you with two electric blue eyes and a downcast expression. You look at his face, then down at his slunked body and up again.

"What?" you ask, annoyed.

"Uh, d'ye mind if I get my arm back?"

he points to his hand, which is trapped underneath something. You raise your eyebrows and your mouth falls open when you realize that the thing trapping his arm is in fact your hand, which is crushed on top of his in a panicked clamp.

"Shit," you hiss, instantly letting go, "sorry!"

"Good lad," he mutters, pressing his reddened hand over his stomach.

"Nah, I mean it, I'm really sorry," you look ahead, not wanting him to see your red cheeks, "It's just... I hate flying."

"S'OK," You don't look at him, but you know he's looking at you, "flying's not for everyone."

There's silence for a moment as his comment hangs in the air. Then suddenly, you respond, unable to hold in your disbelief that he would know anything about what it's like.

"Yeah right," you mutter, "says the guy who just slept through take off."

"Ha!" he smiles. You allow yourself to look at him, "didn't say it wasn't for me. I'm not a wuss."

"Oi!" you protest, angrily, "who you calling a wuss?"

"You," he instantly retorts, not even breaking a sweat, "I called _you _a wuss."

"Oh, shut up," you roll your eyes, unable to continue talking to this neanderthal, "at least I'm not dressed like the grim reaper."

"Hey!" he lowers his eyebrows and for a moment you think you've actually offended him, "would rather look like death than wear that getup you've got on."

"This is Armani," you hiss, "and I wear it for work, all right?"

"Whatever," he closes his eyes, "just sayin', you look like a knob."

You feel your face redden with fury and suddenly you hear a small bell ring. You look up and notice that the 'fasten seatbelt' sign has switched off and immediately you rise to your feet and furiously push past the man out into the aisle.

"Hey! Watch it," the Irish man splutters, "easy, easy!"

You angrily pull open the overhead luggage compartment and go to grab your bag. Suddenly you feel a hand on your arm and without thinking you snatch it away. You have no idea why you've gotten so angry, so quickly, but something about this man makes your blood boil.

"What are ye doin'?" he asks, eyes raised up at you imploringly.

"I'm moving seats!" you say through gritted teeth, "I can't sit by you, not even for this short flight, no way."

He sits back in his seat and continues to watch as you struggle to remove your bag from under the others that are piled on top of it. After a minute of struggling, you sigh and give up. You look at the man below you, who is looking up at you as if you might be insane. Maybe you are.

"Wise up," the man finally says, as you shake your head angrily, "sit back down."

You look at him, eyebrows lowered, and even though he knows you hate him there's a look in his eyes like he feels bad that he's wound you up so much. His pity only serves to irk you more. However, you reluctantly shove past him and flop back into the seat; arms folded and head pushed towards the window.

"Feisty," he mutters, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, "little fecker."

"My name is _Ste,_ not 'Little fecker,'" you roll your eyes.

"Fascinating," he replies, dryly.

"Just don't talk to me, all right?" you spit, "the sooner this flight is over, the better."

"God, you really don't like me, do you?" the man says, laughing slightly, as if he enjoys it.

"No, not really!" you can't help yourself, you have to bite, "who would?"

"You don't even know me," he shakes his head, lowers his eyebrows and speaks to you through a sneer in his lip.

"I know enough."

Your words hang in the air as you both fall into silence. You look out the window, but listen to the shuffle as the man pulls out a book and flips through the pages. You feel like he's finally going to leave you alone, but as you close your eyes, about to slip into a light sleep before landing, he turns around and begins to speak to you.

"So, do you read?" he asks, voice light and casual.

You slowly turn your head, disgusted sneer on your lip.

"Yer wha?" you bite.

"Do. You. Read?" he looks at you and cocks his head to the side, eyes lazily glancing over your face.

He holds up his book and taps his finger on the cover. You glare at him, then look at the title with disinterest.

_American Psycho._

"What's that about?" you ask, glare never faltering.

"It's about a man who works on Wall Street," he replies, then sits back in his seat and stares at the pages, "he's a serial killer."

"Nice," you say, sarcastically, "sounds like something someone like you would read."

"You should read it," he ignores you, "this guy likes _Armani _too."

The man glances at you out of the corner of his eye and you swear you see him smirk. Something about the way he says _Armani_ makes your blood run hot and cold at the same time.

"Funny," you huff.

"Isn't it?"

You shift in your seat and look straight at him, while he pretends to ignore you and read his book. Your whole body is tense, as if about to strike out at any moment. You realize this man could crush you with minimal effort, but you still feel the outcome would be worth it.

Finally he turns his head and looks at you with an unreadable expression. His eyes give absolutely nothing away as to what he's thinking, but he shift his body towards you; feigning attention.

"Do you even know what manners are?" you huff, eyebrows lowered as you shake your head incredulously, "because I don't think you do!"

He's silent for a moment, eyes focused on yours with an intensity that makes you feel slightly uncomfortable. He leans forward, head low like an animal, then glances up at you,

"I don't think you're one to talk about manners," he whispers, mirthless smirk on his face, "_Mr. Armani."_

You feel the warmth of his breath on your face as he says it and it causes your heart to jump in fear. There's something about this man that frightens you, but you're not sure what it is. Before you can figure it out, he leans back in his seat and flicks his book open to his bookmarked page.

You both remain silent until the plane lands.

As the aircraft pulls to a stop you quickly remove yourself from your seat and push past the Irish man. You remain silent as he steps up beside you and removes his own bag from the luggage compartment. You try to grab your bag, but once again you find yourself unable to dislodge it from underneath the others. You sigh and groan as you try with all your might to pull it free, but to no avail. You pull back and let out a growl as a queue of people begin to form behind you. Several people cry out for you to _move it._

Suddenly you watch as the dark haired men steps forward, reaches into the compartment and pulls your bag free. The man turns around, face expressionless, and hands you your bag. You both stand in the aisle and stare at each other for what seems like forever. A feeling of deja vu hits you.

"Thanks," you finally say, still maintaining eye contact.

"No problem," he replies.

You feel the people behind you pushing against your back, urging you forward, but you're rooted to the spot. You can't move. Before you can say anything, the man winks at you, and as he turns to leave you hear him say,

"See you around, Steven._"_


	2. Chapter 2

_Wow, thank you all for the responses. I'm glad everyone seems to be liking the idea and as a thank you I've decided to post the second chapter a little earlier than I intended to. Please keep leaving feedback if you are still enjoying what's happening, I love hearing everybody's comments. _

**In Another Life **

**Chapter 2**

You reach down into the pouring water from the sink, cup it in your hands and splash it over your face. You look up into the mirror in front of you with tired, frantic eyes and try to search for answers in them. Your face is white and tired; you hardly got any sleep last night because you were so nervous about how this meeting would go. Five minutes in and you blow it at the first hurdle. How could you be so careless? You thought the product was foolproof, thought they would all go for it, instead they picked and picked at you until there was nothing left. After the meeting you wanted to go straight back to your hotel, instead you stepped out of the door and felt a wave of nausea rush over you. Instantly you ran to the nearest bathroom, leaned over the toilet and thought for sure you were about to lose your breakfast. Instead, you just sat there, wondering how you managed to screw everything up so royally.

You sigh and shake your head, body sagging as you lean your hands on either side of the sink for support. You peer up at your reflection again and sneer at the untidiness of your appearance. You immediately pull your body up so that you're standing straight, then you lightly straighten your shirt, brush off the lint from your shoulders and emit a steady exhale. You're calm. Finally you pick up your briefcase from the floor and make your way out of the building.

You walk out through a set of gold-plated, revolving doors and into the middle of the Dublin streets. The cool, morning air is fresh against your face and the bustle of people carry you along as you make your way down a narrow, cobbled street. You've been in this city enough for the roads and streets to be familiar, but there's something else about Dublin that makes you feel at ease. You think it's because it's so far from everything back home; your friends, your wife...even your child. You love Amy and Pauline, but you can't help the feeling of claustrophobia you get sometimes. Like they're holding you back. Like they're not enough. Being in Dublin helps you forget. However, you can't help but feel like the trip has been tainted by your unsuccessful business deal. Thoughts about the meeting cloud your head and make your heart race.

You find yourself so deep in your thoughts that you don't see a man walking right on front of you, holding a coffee and looking down at the paper in his hands with sunken eyes. You walk straight into him and send his coffee flying into the air. The man lets out a low snort, eyes wide with shock as you fumble to pick up the briefcase that you'd dropped.

"Sorry, sorry!" you say, frantically, "I didn't even see you there."

"Watch where you're going," the older man says, his face bearded and accent thick, "so much for my morning coffee, anyway!"

You look over at the paper cup, which is lying on the ground with steaming coffee splashed on the pavement beside it.

"Sorry," you mumble, feeling like your day can't get much worse, "I'll buy you another one."

"No matter," the man grunts, sliding a hand through his slicked hair, "I'm going to meet my son, anyway, so I can't be waiting around."

With that the man strides past you, brusquely walking in the direction you'd just come from. You sigh and close your eyes, willing whatever God there is to strike you down. Slowly you begin to walk on, making sure to keep your eyes open for any oncoming, human traffic this time.

You find yourself walking towards a familiar place in Dublin; somewhere you always go to collect your thoughts on your business trips. As you walk down the street, you find yourself approaching quicker than expected, until finally you're walking over it and looking out at the spectacular view from on top of it.

The Ha'penny bridge is somewhere you often go in Dublin, when you get the chance. There's something about the glistening water and picturesque scenery that makes you feel a little bit calmer. You lean on the edge of the bridge and look down at the water below, ignoring the shuffle of tourists and people around you as their cameras flash in your peripheral vision. You feel a tap on your shoulder as a young girl asks you if you can take a picture of her and her friends. You smile and oblige, telling them all to say 'Dublin' while the picture snaps. You grin as the girl bounds up and takes it from you, thanking you profusely. At home you would have grunted and reluctantly agreed to such a request, but here you feel your demeanour shift. Something about Dublin makes you feel happier, even if your day up until this point has been less-than-perfect.

The girls flock away, laughing and giggling as they go. You glance at them and wonder how you're going to feel when Pauline gets to that age. You entertain the thought of bringing her to Dublin when she's older and showing her all the sights you've grown to love; just the two of you. You stand on the bridge for about half an hour before finally leaving and making your way back to the hotel.

The hotel your company has set you up with is by far the most expensive you've ever strayed in. The lobby is huge and grand, with a chandelier hanging from the ceiling and an ornate staircase leading up to the top level of rooms. You make your way to the lift, which takes you up to the fifth level and you make your way to _Room 11. _

You open the door to reveal a large, comfortable room with a king-sized bed in the middle. The floors are covered with a majestic, red carpet and the walls are cream-papered with intricate designs patterned on them. An ordinary person might wonder what a single man would need such a big room for, but you wonder idly why they didn't provide you with a kitchen area.

You open the door of the grand, mahogany wood wardrobe and pull out a casual outfit of jeans and a t-shirt. Slowly you pull off your suit until you're standing in your boxers, then lazily pull on the plain top and jeans. Immediately you feel more relaxed. You sit on your bed and run your hands through your hair, unsettling the gel until the strands are all standing in different angles. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and barely recognise the person staring back.

Suddenly your phone rings beside you on the bedside cabinet, the vibrations causing you to jump. You pick it up and glance at the caller ID: _Amy. _You answer.

"Hello," you sigh, barely able to keep your feelings to yourself.

"Nice to hear from you, too," she replies, clearly detecting your displeasure, "I take it you got there OK?"

You roll your eyes at her ability to make your relaxation disappear in mere moments.

"Yes," you whisper through gritted teeth, "I did."

"Not that I would know," she continues, "considering you didn't even bother to call yesterday to tell me you were safe."

"_Amy,"_ you let out a long breath, patience wearing thin, "do we really have to argue about this?"

"We wouldn't have to if you'd just call," she mumbles, "I only want to know you're OK."

"I'm _fine_," you say, throwing out your hand in exasperation, "everything is fine, I'm only here for a few days. I don't need to call you every moment, do I?"

You can feel your heart beat in your chest, but the silence on the other end tells you your words have stung. You close your eyes, upset by your own cruelty. You don't know why you treat her this way, but you can't stand that she cares so much about you when you know she shouldn't. Can't stand it when her love for you is clear. You hear her clear her throat, then she speaks,

"So, how did your meeting go?" she changes the subject, "did they like your idea?"

You feel your heart seize as anxious butterflies form in your stomach. You were trying not to think about the bomb that was that meeting.

"It went well," you lie, "they liked the idea. Said it was the best thing ever."

"That's great," her voices pitches and it sounds like she's actually excited for you, "I'm so glad! I know you were worried about it."

"Yeah," you smile, because making her happy is all you've ever wanted to do, "yeah, it is great."

"Well, I hope the next few days go just as well," she chirps, "Pauline misses you."

"I miss her too," you laugh, but the joy is only just sincere.

"I miss you too," she whispers, as if she doesn't quite want you to hear but can't stop herself.

A pause falls down the line as she waits for you to respond.

"I miss you too," you say finally, and you can hear a breath of relief, "I'll speak to you soon."

"Speak soon," she says, "love you."

"You too," you say.

The line goes dead and you're not sure if she waited to see if you would say the words back. Maybe she knew you didn't really feel them. You wonder if it even matters anymore. You stand up from the bed and make your way over to the mini-bar, pull out a small bottle of whiskey and pour yourself a large shot. You down it straight, liquid burning your tongue and shooting straight to your head. The warmth in your stomach is comforting.

You remain in your room until the sky begins to turn darken through the window. The glow of the streetlights below burn orange through the glass, and as you look down at the city you can see that the streets are lit up brightly and people are walking and talking together. Across the street you see a lively pub, lights flickering in the windows while a chorus of drunken men shout and jeer outside. Suddenly you're overcome with the need to go there, if only for an hour, just to drown away whatever anxiety is left from the day. You tell yourself you'll only be there for an hour.

You pull on your jacket and make your way downstairs to the lobby and out the front door. The air is cold and icy against your face, and there's a light rain blowing in the wind as you trot over to the bar. The outside is painted a dark green and the red sign outside shows that the pub is called 'Fitzcarraldo's'.

You walk in and immediately the smell of salt and booze hits your nose. The noise is loud and abrasive to your ears. You're not used to bars, being someone who prefers places that are less crowded, and the pubs back home are nothing like this one. Men are jeering and laughing at all sides, pushing each other and bumping into you. You find a seat at the bar and sit down, trying to draw little attention to yourself. Your hoody is pulled up over your head and you look out at the punters through lowered eyes. Suddenly you hear a gruff voice speak out to you and you turn around to face the barman. You immediately recognise him as the man whose coffee you'd spilt this morning.

"Ah God, it's you then is it?" the man grunts, but he doesn't seem as annoyed as he did this morning, "come to wreck my pub now as well, are you?"

"Uh..." you pause, unable to form a coherent thought.

"Relax boy, I'm only messing with ye," the man bursts out in a bright smile and at once you feel at ease, "the past is the past. Now, what can I get for you?"

You smile tentatively and ask for a whiskey. The man looks you up and down and laughs,

"My whiskey will knock a skinny fella like you out, son," he winks, "I'll water it down a bit."

"Thanks," you smile, and watch as the man turns around to pour your drink.

You look around the bar and watch as big, burly men arm-wrestle each other at a nearby table. A group of friends are gathered around them, chanting out the name of whoever they're backing. The men's faces are red like tiny, plump grapes and you wonder if maybe they might explode from the strain. Finally, one of the men -a small guy with red hair- slams his opponent's hand down on the table and the gatherers yell out in applause as he raises his hands in the air in victory.

You shake your head and turn back to the table, where the barman has set your drink.

"This one's on the house, son," he says, "you look like you could use it."

With that the man turns away to serve another customer, leaving you confused and wondering what it is about your face that makes you look so pitiable. You swivell your chair around to watch the next opponents set themselves up for another arm wrestling competition. You slowly take a sip of your drink, which is piled with ice, and glance over as a man with blonde hair sets himself down opposite a man with dark hair. The chants begins once again as they both arrange themselves into position, then finally the wrestle begins. The blonde man's face turns purple in an instant, while the dark-haired man remains stoic and unfazed; the only sign of his struggle being the slight tautness of his jaw. Eventually, with one final push, the dark-haired man slams his opponent's hand down onto the table and jumps to his feet at the applause that erupts. Around him you hear the crowd of men chanting his name- _Brendan._

The man turns around from the shadows, face slightly reddened and stubbled in the light. You pause, drink poised to your lips, as the familiar face clamps eyes upon you. You watch wordlessly as the man looks at you, eyebrows furrowed as if trying to place your face, until gradually you see recognition dawning on him. You watch his face closely as his eyebrow slowly rises and you can see the shock in his expression as he slowly pieces together who you are. You both stare at each other, unable to move, until the man feels a clamped hand on his shoulder. His attention is broken as he turns around to talk to his friend, who is congratulating him with a hearty slap on the back. You turn around and quickly polish off your drink, then slam it on the table. You're about to leave when you feel a tap on your shoulder. You don't have to turn around to know who it is.

The moustached man pulls up a seat beside you and sets himself down, legs sprawled out at angles as he props his feet on the rungs of the barstool. He leans one arm on the counter and regards you with a smile, head cocked at an angle.

"Well, look who it is," he says, "no suit today?"

You regard him with lowered eyes and immediately remember why you disliked him so much. The way he speaks, the way he sits...everything about him is arrogant.

"I told you, I only wear the suit for work," you snap, unsure why you feel the need to explain yourself, "you're still dressed like death, though."

You watch as he eyes his own clothes up and down. His leather jacket is pressed to his sides and his black trousers stretch tightly over his legs. Tonight he's wearing a white t-shirt.

"What can I say? It's my style," he retorts, coolly.

"Wouldn't exactly call 'black' a style," you bite.

You watch as the man looks at you, eyes dark and face expressionless. For a moment you worry you've pushed him too far, but after a while you begin to see his lip twitch in what looks like the beginnings of a smile. He turns in his seat and ushers the barman over,

"Brendan, aren't you supposed to be working?" the older man grunts, wiping down the counter under the other man's arms.

"I was busy," he replies, smile breaking out on his face as he regards the older man, who looks at him sceptically.

"Arm-wrestling isn't 'busy,'" the man says, "I don't pay you to sit around with your friends."

"Sorry, Dad," the man says, but his tone implies he's not bothered, nor is he sorry, "I'll get back to work in a minute."

"You better," the older man says, winking at you and pointing at his son with a warning finger, "otherwise there'll be Hell to pay."

The man walks off, leaving you both alone again. The dark-haired man turns to you and smirks,

"There won't be Hell to pay," he takes a sip of whiskey, which he's poured himself, "Dad's all talk."

You watch his throat ripple as he takes in the liquid and swallows.

"Is that your name then?" you finally say, voice low, "Brendan?"

"It is," he replies.

"Didn't think I'd ever see you again," you say.

"Wishful thinking," he quips, "I don't go away that easily."

"I'm beginning to realize," you shake your head, but you're unable to help the smirk on your lips.

"So what brings you to Dublin?" Brendan asks, polishing off the Whiskey in his glass. He smiles, a tiny flash of teeth, "Business or pleasure?"

You feel heat prickle up your collar as you look at him, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that seems unsettling.

"Uh," you shake your head, trying to find your words, "I'm here for work."

"Should've known," he laughs, a low rumble in his chest, "one of those suit types."

"Dunno what you mean," you shrug, irritation grinding your gut again.

"We always get you suit types coming in here," he continues, casually, "let me guess, you're staying at that hotel across the street."

His grin makes you want to punch a hole in his face.

"So?" you snap.

Once again he has succeeded in winding you up. He knows nothing about you, yet something in his tone tells you he's judging you. Making out like you were born with a silver spoon. Like you've always been like this. Like you were born this way.

"Woah, calm down," he puts his hand out to ease you, "no offence, it's just you seem like the fancy sort. All style, no substance."

Immediately you get up from the stool and lean over him, body vibrating with anger and irritation. Just when you thought the guy might be OK, he somehow manages to turn into an asshole again.

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?" you growl, "I've got plenty of substance, me!"

The man smiles, and for a moment you wonder if he's intentionally trying to wind you up. Your body shakes as he calmly stands and towers over you, looking down at you and asserting his physical power over your smaller frame. You stand up to your full height, but you still have nothing on him. He leans down, face inches from yours, and hisses,

"_Prove_ it."

The whiskey on his breath pours over you and you can feel the hairs stand up on your arms. You look into his eyes, face contorted angrily as he goads you, and when the anger becomes too much you reach out and push your hands into his chest, forcing him back into the stool behind him. His eyes are wide and shocked as he grapples to steady himself, and as you shove past him towards the front door you hear him yelling out to you as you pound through the exit and out into the street.

You continue walking and don't look back.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you all so much for the kind reviews. I must warn you that updates will not always be this prompt, but as I will be out of town for the next few days I will not be able to update any sooner. Therefore, Chapter 3 is yet another uncharacteristically prompt update. Enjoy and please continue to leave feedback. _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 3**

You take in a sharp breath of air and shoot up in your bed. Your heart is racing and a fine sweat is forming on your forehead as your eyes frantically search the room. You press your hand to your head and close your eyes, swallowing the fear in your stomach with a deep gulp. The dream had been more vivid than ever; you could practically smell the gun powder in your nostrils and taste the salt of tears on your tongue. Your hands are shaking.

You quickly get out of bed and walk to the bathroom, then strip naked and jump into the shower. The warm, soothing water calms your nerves and brings you back to reality. It was just a dream, you tell yourself, but the effects of it never failed to leave you feeling traumatised for hours afterwards. Perhaps Amy was right and you should investigate into some anxiety medications; anything would be better than the tight feeling of fear in your stomach at this moment. You grab the shampoo bottle, place a blob of it into your palms and scrub your scalp, then perform the same ritual with your shower gel over the contours of your body. By the time you get out of the shower and dress yourself, you already feel calmer.

You look into the mirror as you are about to leave and assess how you look. Everything about you is neat, orderly and put together. You hair is sitting perfectly, not a strand out of place, and your shoes are shiny black and polished. It's important that you look perfect today for your meeting, because after yesterday's disaster you need everything to run smoothly. There is no room for error. You give a small smile and a reaffirming nod at your reflection, then you grab your briefcase and brusquely walk out the door.

As you walk through the front door of the hotel and out into the middle of the street, you can't avoid looking over at the pub across the road. In the cold light of day, the pub looks less warm and inviting to your eyes. You stand on the pavement and scour the outside, scrutinizing every crack and crevice in the building. Suddenly the heavy, wooden front door opens and you see a man walk out. You immediately recognize him as Brendan. You step back quickly, as if your feet are urging you back into the hotel, but something keeps you rooted to the spot. You watch as the man walks over to a table and picks up some empty glasses that are left there. As he picks up the glasses, you watch as he turns and makes his way back into the building. You look at your watch and realize that you're five minutes behind schedule. You quickly start walking down the street, dodging and weaving through slow pedestrians on the way.

You arrive at the building where your meeting is to be held, with fifteen minutes to spare. You approach the front desk to ask the receptionist what room the meeting is being held in, and immediately you are faced with a brunette, curly-haired woman wearing a pair of thick, black glasses. Her face is bare, aside from a splash of red lipstick that brightens up her otherwise plain appearance. She is speaking on the phone as you approach and before you can ask her any questions, she immediately puts up her finger in a gesture for you to wait a moment. After a minute of waiting impatiently, she finally hangs up the phone and turns to face you with a bright smile;

"Sorry about that," she smiles, "what can I do for you?"

"I'm here for the meeting," you reply, eyeing the clock on the wall behind her anxiously, "and it's about to start any minute, so I need to get there quick."

"I see," she replies, looking at her computer screen and typing frantically, "well I'm sorry love, but there are a lot of meetings being held today. What company are you here with?"

"I'm here with _'Smith and West',"_ you say, "it's an advertising firm."

"'_Smith and West_,' '_Smith and West',_" she mutters, fingers typing frantically on her keyboard, "Ah, here it is! First room on the second floor," she smiles widely, white teeth glinting, "and five minutes to spare!"

"Thanks!" you say.

You quickly make your way to the nearest elevator and press for the second floor. Your fingers twitch as you nervously flatten the lapels of your blazer and inspect your shirt for dirt. A bell rings and the doors of the elevator stretch open and you quickly walk down a long, narrow corridor and immediately find the first door on the right hand side. You breath a sigh of relief as you walk into the room and realize you are the first person to arrive. A smile finds its way to your lips and you are grateful for the spare preparation time.

You immediately sit down on a chair around the circular table and place your briefcase on the table, then open it to find your notes and sample sheets. However, as you ruffle through the contents of your briefcase, your heart starts to quicken as the sheets and notes you packed are nowhere to be found. Your movements become quick and frantic as you paw through the contents, shoving papers and files to the side in your search for your work. When every crevice and crack in your briefcase has been inspected, you feel your stomach drop and face pale when you realize that you've left all your papers for the meeting in your hotel room.

"Fuck," you whisper, lump forming in your throat, "_fuck!"_

You press a hand to your forehead and your leg shakes as your eyes glance to the clock to see how much time you have left. Five minutes. You have to make a snap decision to go on without the notes or try to run back to your hotel and collect them. It doesn't take you long to realize that doing the meeting without them would be suicide and so you have no choice. You quickly shove your papers back into your briefcase and run through the doors of the room and down the corridor. Adrenaline kicks in as you reach the elevator and frantically press the down button, breath ragged in your ears as you finally give up and run down the stairs two at a time. Your legs bolt through the lobby and you vaguely hear the receptionist tell you to _slow down_ as you run through the front door and into the street.

Passers-by and pedestrians dodge out of your way as you run past, and the ones that don't move in time face your wrath as you shove them out of the way, unapologetically. Your heart is racing as you approach your hotel and as you're about to walk through the revolving doors you hear a voice shouting out behind you.

"Steven!" the familiar voice rings through your ears, "hey, wait up!"

You turn around, breaths frantic in your ears and face twisted as your eyes fix upon the dark-haired man at the other side of the street. He is walking over to you, forehead creased as he glances at you. Your eyes are icy as your mouth struggles to form the words to tell him to go away. You tense as you realize that time is ticking on and you still need to get the documents from your room. You don't have time for this!

"Look, this isn't a good time!" you say, holding your hands out to him, "I need to-"

"This will only take a second," he says, "I just wanted to talk to you about last night."

"It doesn't matter!" you reply coolly, "seriously, I don't care."

"Well I do," he fires back, brow furrowed in annoyance.

"I can't talk, all right, I seriously need to-"

"Would you just hear me out a second!" he says, hands propped into his pockets as he shuffles, "look, I don't say this much...but I'm sorry."

His motions become erratic and you can sense his discomfort as he looks from you, to the ground, to the sky; everywhere but your eyes. You shake your head, barely even listening and completely frustrated as your awareness of the time increases. You glance back at the revolving doors, willing yourself to just be back in the meeting room and away from here.

"I'm sorry," he continues with a shrug, then glances at you, "I obviously offended you and it's obvious you can't take a joke, so-"

"Look, I've got to go," you finally burst, unable to stand and listen any longer, "seriously, I can't be here, I have to go!"

You turn and run towards the building, while behind you you hear the man yell out angrily,

"Oh that's _real_ nice!" he says, "Fine! You don't want to hear it? Fine."

You glance back and watch the retreating man's back as he walks across the street and into his pub, sliding his hands through his hair in frustration as he mumbles '_unbelievable.'_

You run as fast as your legs will carry you up the first few floors of the building, but when you realize you're being too slow, you take the elevator up the remaining floors. You quickly sprint down the corridor to your room and frantically search your pockets for the keys before bursting in. You hurriedly search the room with your eyes, clawing through cupboards and wardrobes trying to find your papers. Eventually you spot them, sitting in the bottom drawer of your room where you'd set them the night before.

You grab them and thumb through each page to make sure everything is there, then quickly dart out of the room and down the corridor to the elevator. When you arrive in the lobby you glance at the large, ornate clock on the wall and feel your heart stop when you realize you're already twenty minutes late. You feel your eyes tear up, but you breath in and out to calm yourself. You can't afford to break, not now.

When you finally arrive back at the building you're forty-five minutes late. You run up to the reception desk and the blond, curly-haired woman is staring at you with wide eyes and a sympathetic smile. Your breathing is erratic as you lean on the desk and look at her,

"A-are t-the '_Smith and West_' people st-still h-here?" you breath, coughing as your lungs seize up against the struggle to catch your breath.

The woman is silent as she watches you through her eyelashes. Slowly, sadly, she shakes her head;

"No love," she says, her voice low, "I'm sorry. They left ten minutes ago."

You feel your heart drop and you try to stop your eyes from watering. You sniff and stand up straight, trying to keep calm and keep up appearances. You sigh, then watch as the woman behind the desk looks up at you with pity in her eyes.

"Do you want me to call someone?" she asks, providing the little comfort she can, "maybe someone will be here tomorrow?"

"No," you mumble, barely able to force a smile, "it's fine, don't bother."

You slowly turn and make your way out of the building, your body prickling with heat and sweat and fear. You missed the meeting and you know you'll never get a second chance. This was your only shot to finally be noticed in your job -to get a promotion and your ideas recognised- and you've blown it. You may even have lost your job, you don't even know anymore. You exit the building and find yourself in the middle of the busy street. You pull your phone from your pocket and quickly type in the number of your boss, wondering if you could maybe arrange another date for a future meeting. As you press the phone to your ear, you're immediately transferred to voice-mail. You close your eyes, sigh and lower your head- defeated.

As you trudge down the street you find yourself clutching your briefcase to your chest for comfort. Everything you'd worked so hard for seemed obsolete now. You tried again several times to call your boss and tell him about the circumstances, but you dreaded hearing what he would say. The fact that he hadn't even tried to call you to see why you weren't at the meeting frightened you even more. The silence was worse than anything. You wonder if you even have a job anymore.

You find yourself walking until you reach a little deli at the corner of a small, secluded street. You walk in and immediately the smell of baking bread and coffee infiltrates your nostrils. You walk up to the till and watch as the man behind the counter walks over and greets you with a small wave and a smile.

"What can I get you?" he asks, and immediately you detect an american accent.

"Just a coffee, please," you mutter, eyes low as you're distracted by your own thoughts.

"Great," he chirps, "I'll make it extra strong. Looks like you might be having one of _those_ days."

You glance up at his comment, but relax as he sends you a small smile before turning to make your drink.

"Thanks," you say, "it is."

"Well I find it helps to talk about it," he says, his back to you. He glances back, blue eyes focusing on you intently, "if you're interested."

"No thanks," you shrug and sigh, "it's a bit too fresh to talk about it just yet."

"Ah, I see," he raises his eyebrows and turns back to your drink, "must've been bad."

"It was," you shake your head, "it really was."

The man finishes making your coffee in record time and turns back to hand you the paper cup. You hand him the money and he slots it in the till, his eyes bright and happy as he smiles at you.

"Well, you know what my Dad used to tell me when I thought something was the end of the World?" he smiled, "'This too shall pass.'"

You pause and stare at this stranger, who is reciting lines of optimism to you. Normally you would slap someone if they were to say something like that in a time of crises, but something in the man's expression eased a tightness in the deepest depths of your soul.

"Thanks," you mumble, taking a sip of coffee.

"No problem," he smiles, "hope the rest of your day goes better."

"Me too," you sigh, then turn and walk out the door.

You find yourself wandering the streets of Dublin for what seems like hours, running the day's events over and over in your head in a torturous cycle. Nervously you check your phone every five minutes, wondering why on earth nobody has called or messaged you. At one point you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket and you pull it out quickly with twitchy fingers, but when you see the name _Amy _flash up on the screen you pause and press the 'ignore' button.

Eventually you find yourself wandering closer and closer to the harbour, as your feet continue to move without any input from your head. The cool, salty breeze blows over your face as a fine mist begins to settle near the water. The sun is falling and clouds appear as if from out of nowhere, turning the sky to grey. You find yourself walking closer to the water and gradually you find a walkway that leads you down to a stone path near the sea. You shove your hands into your pockets to protect them from the cold and look out towards the horizon, across the wide, naked expanse of ocean. For a moment you feel calm as you deeply inhale and exhale the fresh, sea air.

You find yourself moving closer and closer to the pier that extends out into the middle of the water. As you approach, you notice that someone is sitting on the edge of the pier. You can't help but feel annoyed that you won't be able to sit in peace. You walk along the platform and as you approach, you can see the back of the person's head. You squint, trying to get a better look, but the only thing you can decipher about the person is that it's a man. You try to remain quiet as you approach, but the scuff of your shoes causes the person to turn and face you.

You recognise him immediately.

"You've got to be kidding me," he exhales, shaking his head as if he can't believe it.

Your body is still as your eyebrows rise in shock. Surely it can't be him? But it is. You didn't think it was possible to run into the same person -a stranger- twice, in two completely different scenarios within the space of two days. You slowly walk forward as the man turns back to face out towards the sea. He turns his head slightly as you stand beside him, then looks up at you with a stoic expression,

"You know there are laws against stalking," he mumbles.

"Very funny," you reply, "why would I want to stalk you, of all people?"

"You tell me," he says.

Silence falls through the air as you stand and he sits. Neither of you exchange a word.

"Well, are you gonna sit down?" he finally breaks the silence, "or are you waiting for a written invitation?"

You wrinkle your nose in annoyance, but slowly lower yourself until you are sitting beside him. You don't have the energy or patience to deal with him today. All you want to do is sit.

"Look, I just came here for some peace and quiet," you hiss, "I don't want to get into anything with you."

"...and you think _I _don'twant that?" he retorts.

"Well, what's stopping you then?" you reply, sarcastically, "because you certainly don't _sound_ like you want to be quiet."

With that the dark-haired man stops talking and a pregnant silence falls around you both, as you sit on the edge of the pier and look out across the water. You close your eyes and try to imagine being alone, but you're immediately pulled out of your thoughts as the man beside you begins to whistle a tune out into the empty air. The echo is piercing and abrasive to your ears.

"Ere, do you mind?" you say, looking over at him through the corner of your eye.

"Not at all," he replies, smugly.

"You know what I mean," you roll your eyes, "stop whistling."

"Was I whistling?" he says, feigning ignorance, "didn't notice."

"Well you were," you grumble, "look I've had a bad day and this isn't helping, so I'm just going to go."

You press your hands to the ground and attempt to pull yourself up, when suddenly you feel a hand clamp on your shoulder and push you back down. He looks at you, eyes low and calculating but giving nothing away. You gaze at him, brow lowered in confusion, until he finally looks out to the sea and mutters,

"What happened?"

You shake your head, unable to figure out what he means, until he explains;

"You said you had a bad day," he continues, "what happened?"

"...nothing," you mumble, mouth jutted out in a pout, "I missed a meeting."

"Ouch," he tuts his tongue, "that's the good thing about working in a pub...no meetings."

"Yeah, well this was important," you say, unable to stop yourself now that you've started to talk about it, "...and I blew it."

He doesn't speak for a moment and you idly wonder if he even cares. You shuffle in your seated position and fiddle with your tie, then you let it drop and begin to fidget with your fingers instead.

"Can't be that bad," he says, never once looking at you, his eyes on the ocean, "you know what they say...everything happens for a reason."

You snort, unable to hide your disdain at the words,

"You don't really believe that shit, do you?" you say.

He's silent for a moment, before finally his eyes fall on yours and he slowly nods his head,

"I do."

You furrow your eyebrows and turn your head out towards the sea. Out in the distance you can see a boat travelling towards the horizon.

"Funny," you say, "didn't pin you as the hopelessly optimistic type."

"I'm not," he shrugs, "but you got to believe in something, right?"

"I guess so," you turn to look at him, "I've never really believed in anything, me."

He turns to look at you and his eyes glance over your face. He laughs, a hollow snort, but says nothing. After a moment of silence, he changes the subject;

"So, how long you been married?" he asks, then pulls a paper-wrapped bottle from his pocket and takes a sip.

You wrinkle your nose and stare at him in wonder,

"How do you know I'm married?" you ask, puzzled.

He nods down at your hand and you peer down at the plain, silver wedding band around your finger.

"Oh, right," you mumble, "four years."

"_Jesus,"_ he says, slight amusement glinting behind his icy blue eyes, "now, what would a guy your age go and do something like that for?"

You're silent. Sometimes you wonder the same thing.

"Dunno," you shrug, "Amy got pregnant with our Pauline and that was it. Didn't really think about it."

He nods beside you, then takes another drink. You fall into silence.

"How about you?" you finally ask, curiosity getting the better of you, "you married? Kids?"

He presses his mouth out into a thoughtful pout and shakes his head,

"Nope," he replies, face expressionless so you can't tell exactly how he feels about this, "young, free and single."

"Huh," you snort, a mirthless laugh, "wouldn't call you young, like. What are you? Thirty?"

You turn in time to see his lip twitch, breaking the cool exterior you've been used to from the man. He twists his head and faces you, his jaw tense and his eyes lowered,

"What are ye saying?" he points to his face and circles it with his finger, "this face is timeless."

"Whatever," you can't help but laugh at that, "you're old enough to be me Dad."

He nods, smirk twitching the corners of his lip as he takes another drink,

"Now there's a thought," he squints, "thank God that's not the case."

You elbow him in the ribs and he lets out a hiss,

"Hey! Watch it!" he shoves you with his hand.

You watch him silently as he pulls down the corners of his jacket and absently brushes himself off. As you examine his face, you're vaguely aware of a twinge in your stomach as your eyes glance over the fine stubble on his chin and moustache on his lip. Before you have a chance to think about it, you immediately tear your eyes away and bury the feeling deep down into the recesses of your mind. Suddenly you feel irritated and you're not sure whether it's with the man beside you or with yourself.

"Knock it off," you mutter, face downcast and eyes dark.

"Jesus, you're a moody little shit, ain't ye?" he tuts, "I pity the missus."

"Yeah, well at least _someone_ wants me," you bite, harshly, "unlike you."

"Who says I'm single?" he stares at you, eyes dark as the comment hangs in the air, "I just meant I wasn't married."

"Well, are you single?" you ask, suddenly curious.

He gives nothing away through his facial expression, then slowly raises his finger to his nose and taps it,

"Nosey," he says.

You roll your eyes, fed up with this guy's mind games.

"Can you ever just give a _straight _answer?" you ask, frustration tingeing your voice.

"A straight answer," he mutters, nodding thoughtfully, "interesting choice of words."

"Huh?_" _you're even more confused than before.

"You want to get something to eat?" he asks, but before you answer he's already picked himself from the ground and is on his feet.

"No thanks," you mumble, "not hungry."

"Suit yourself," he shrugs.

The man is about to walk off when suddenly, without thought, you slowly rise to your feet and follow him. He hears you approach behind and turns around, eyeing you up and down.

"You hungry after all?" he asks, eyebrow raised, "I swear, I can't keep up."

"Yeah," you nod, too embarrassed to tell him you're not ready to go back to your hotel room and stew alone in your own anxiety, "could do with something."

He looks out at the sea, never meeting your eyes, then nods and begins to walk down the platform,

"Good lad," he says, "follow me."

Without another word, you reluctantly follow the Irish man to the end of the pier.


	4. Chapter 4

_Well I've managed to get a little bit of free time on my trip out of town, so I decided to update. Once again, thank you so much for all your reviews. I take everything into consideration, so do keep leaving comments if you have something to say. Again, thank you for following the story. – B. _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 4**

The dark-haired, Irishman walks along the promenade with long, steady strides. He always seems to remain a few steps in front of you, no matter how much you try and match his speed. You glance over at him but remain silent as you gradually approach a small, rackety van positioned at the side of the pathway; nestled in the grass. As you get closer you begin to smell the mouth-watering aroma of salt and vinegar wafting through the air and you realize with surprise that you are hungrier than you thought. Eventually you find yourselves standing at the entrance of the van, where a man is positioned at the window waiting to take your order.

"Brendan," the man nods with familiarity, "how you been keeping?"

"So-so," Brendan replies, never once breaking a smile, even though it's clear he knows the man quite well, "the pub's been pretty busy. Yourself?"

"Still breathing," the other man quips, "just the chips then?"

"You know me so well," the dark-haired man replies, dryly.

The chip man glances at you then and you feel awkward, as if you've suddenly been noticed and are interrupting some sort of bonding moment. The man nods his head of fluffy, grey hair at you then looks at Brendan,

"Who's your friend?" he asks, grabbing the handle of the chip pan and shaking the contents, "you picking up strays again?"

"Huh," Brendan snorts out a laugh, and you can't tell if it's amusement or something else, "he'll just have chips too, John."

You shuffle on the spot and shove your hands in your pockets. In your gut you feel a heat rise in protest as the older man orders your food for you, but you say nothing. Chips might not be so bad at this moment. The other man nods and you watch with raised eyebrows as Brendan reaches into his pocket and puts a ten on the counter,

"That should cover both," he nods at the man, John, who raises his eyebrow, "right?"

You blink several times, then slowly shake your head in protest,

"No," you say, quickly stepping forward, "no, it's OK, I'll buy me own"

"Be quiet, would ye?" Brendan snaps, then turns back to the owner, "ten enough?"

"Sure," the man says, you swear you can see a smirk twitch the corner of his mouth as he looks at Brendan, "whatever you say."

Brendan turns away from the man and leans his back against the side of the van, arms folded casually as he waits for the food. He kicks back his foot and rests it against the wheel, then looks at you through slightly hooded eyes. He looks older under the harsh light of the bright, clouded sky. You both stand in silence until finally the man calls out your order and hands you both a thick wrapping of chips, stuffed in a paper cone.

"Thanks," you say.

"Yeah, thanks," Brendan mutters, already stuffing his mouth with a handful of greasy chips.

"Jesus," you mumble, beginning to walk away from the van towards the town.

"What?" he replies, eyes large and blue while his mouth chomps on the fried slices of potato.

"Nothing," you say, "just never seen anyone eat like that before."

"You never met an Irish boy?" he smirks, "my Dad used to take me to that chip van when I was a kid. Even then I'd have them finished before he'd even started."

You look over at him and see his eyes glint at the memories.

"I never had a Dad," you mutter.

You stare into your cone of chips as you walk, smelling the intense aroma of sweet vinegar and ketchup. There's silence beside you as the other man takes in what you've said, chomping thoughtfully on his chips.

"That's too bad," he finally says, "can't imagine not having a Dad."

"Doesn't matter," you shrug, and you realize it really doesn't, "my Mum raised me alone and she's all I ever really needed."

You both fall into silence as you walk and suddenly you feel stupid for divulging so much information to this man, who probably doesn't even really care. You glance over at Brendan and watch as the man Hoover's up the rest of his chips and holds the bag up over his mouth to catch the crumbs.

"You going to finish those?" Brendan asks, pointing at the half-full bag in your hand.

You shake your head and roll your eyes before passing the bag to the other man, who polishes them off with the same fervour as he did with his own. As you walk along in relatively blissful silence, you find the area surrounding you becoming more and more urbanized. The amount of people around you slowly increases as you get further from the harbour and eventually you find yourselves walking into a small, secluded park in the middle of a busy town. You have no idea where you are, but the man beside you walks confidently through the area with long, smooth strides.

As you walk into the green, tree-lined park, Brendan spots an ice-cream van parked near a small playground where kids are frolicking. You marvel at the man's appetite as he stops and asks you to wait while he goes and buys himself an ice-cream.

"Are you joking?" you ask, eyebrows raised, "you just ate two bags of chips!"

"So?" he shrugs, seeming genuinely confused.

You roll your eyes and turn away as the man leaves to get his ice-cream. You find a small, two-person seat near to the play-park and sit down, listening to the kids laughing and playing on the nearby swings. Suddenly your heart twitches as you think of Pauline and are overcome with the desire to see her. It still amazes you how you can miss someone so much, even though you only saw her a few days ago.

After a moment you hear the older man approach and the seat creaks as he sits down and devours his ice-cream, his mouth diving down over the creamy swirls and slowly rising back up. You've never seen someone eat like that before. Your face gets hot as you watch and then quickly look away, heart hammering in your chest. What's wrong with you? The man sits on the seat, legs spread as he glances over at the play-park. After a moment he turns to you,

"What age is your kid?" he asks, tilting his head towards the children as if she's one of them.

"Three," you reply, "almost four."

"Ah," he nods, biting into his ice-cream, "cute."

"She can be Hell sometimes," you continue, suddenly wanting to talk about her and ease the pain of missing her, "but it's worth it."

"Must be hard," he says, "being away from your family when you're working."

"Sometimes," you nod, watching the kids play, "sometimes it's not too bad."

"How about your wife?" he continues casually, taking off the main bulk of his ice-cream and cone with one fatal bite, "how does she feel about you being away?"

You feel your body tingle with nerves at Amy being mentioned. Your phone feels like it's burning in your pocket as the three missed calls from her remain unanswered.

"She's fine about it," you lie, amazed at how easily it slips out, "she's the one who encouraged me to make a better life for myself."

"Sounds like one hell of a lady," Brendan ponders, but seems distracted by eating the cone of his demolished ice-cream.

"She is," you nod, guilt eating away at your mind, "she knows I want Pauline to have a good Dad. I never had a Dad so that means a lot to me."

You trail off as you begin to feel a tightness in your chest. Suddenly you don't want to talk about them anymore. Talking about them leads to too many questions, questions you're not sure you'd know the answers to if they were asked. You lean back in your seat, breathe in and change the subject,

"How about you?" you ask, reverting the conversation onto the older man, "you got a girlfriend?"

It's something you've wondered ever since he refused to tell you at the pier. The man licks his fingers and holds his thumb in his mouth as he turns to look at you, as if suddenly just realizing you're there at all. He pulls his thumb from his mouth and regards you with a tight expression, then finally replies,

"No," he shakes his head, "I did once, but not anymore."

"Just the one?" Ste asks, trying to hide his surprise, "your people skills must be worse than I thought."

"Maybe," the man laughs, and his smile is wide and reaches his eyes, "I guess so."

"Well why not?" you continue, suddenly intrigued by the conversation, "do girls just not like you or something?"

The man looks away and you see a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he's laughing at you or having some sort of joke at your expense. You frown, suddenly annoyed that he seems to be keeping something from you. Slowly his face turns back to serious and he wrinkles his nose in what seems to be disapproval,

"Girls are too much hassle," he explains, running a hand back through his hair and leaning forward until his elbows are leaning on his knees, "I don't have time for them."

You nod in understanding and lean forward to match his stance.

"I know what you mean," you say.

The man turns and looks at you, head tilted to the side as if he's surprised,

"Really?" he asks.

"Yeah," you nod emphatically, "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love Amy...but sometimes she drives me nuts. Sometimes I just don't _get_ her."

A silence falls between you both and you can feel his eyes resting on you. You turn to face him, brow furrowed,

"You know what I mean?" you ask, hoping that he does. That you're not crazy.

"Yeah," he nods, after a moment of silence, "I do."

You both remain still and watch as the kids play in the park, until eventually the sky begins to darken.

"You want to head back?" Brendan asks, turning to face you.

"Yeah," you nod, looking at your watch, "it's pretty late."

You both stand and begin to make your way out of the park, back towards the hotel.

Xoxoxo

By the time you arrive back at your hotel, Brendan leading the way the entire time, the night sky has darkened the city overhead. The lights shine brightly over the narrow, dusty streets and as you approach Brendan's pub the man stops and turns to look at you. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at you with a thoughtful expression, then nods towards the bar,

"Well, looks like the fun stops here," he says, laconically, "you heading to bed?"

You look at your watch and wrinkle your nose,

"It's nine o'clock," you say, "what age do you think I am? Five?"

"I dunno," he shrugs, "can't be far off."

Your insides twitch in annoyance,

"Funny," you huff, pulling your arms around yourself as the cold night air seeps into your bones.

"You want to come in for a drink?" he nods towards the pub, "on the house."

You're in awe of how this man can go from being annoying, to nice, to unbearable and back to all right again. Still, your skin is goose-fleshed and you don't feel like paying for whiskey from the mini-bar again, so you nod.

"Sure," you reply, "why not?"

You follow the man into the heaving pub, which is warm and inviting against the chill of the night. As Brendan walks ahead, you marvel at the sheer amount of greetings and high-fives the man receives upon entry. Is he the most popular man in Dublin or something? He seems to know everybody.

You both find a seat in a booth at the corner of the pub. You sit and the Irish man asks _what's your poison_ before heading to the bar to get you a Whiskey on the rocks. The older man is gone for about twenty minutes and you look over to catch him at the bar talking to a small man with blonde hair. You watch intently as Brendan hovers over the man and you frown as you take in the menacing expression on his face. The smaller man looks up at him with wide, beseeching eyes while his expression morphs somewhere between desperation and frustration. You can see Brendan holding out his hands in annoyance, trying to get the smaller man to listen, but eventually the older man can't take it anymore and he turns to the bar, picks up your glasses and walks back over to the table where you're seated.

As he approaches you look away, trying to hide the fact that you were spying on him. Brendan sits down, brow furrowed as he lets out a long sigh of annoyance.

"Problem?" you ask, eyebrows raised as you take a sip of Whiskey.

The man looks up, expressionless, then slowly shakes his head,

"No," he takes a sip of his drink, which looks like Brandy, "some people just don't know how to take the fucking hint."

You both slip into silence as you drink, Brendan's lip twitching slightly as he seems to be replaying his conversation with the smaller man over and over in his head. You briefly wonder what the man said to provoke such a reaction from someone like Brendan, who -as far as you could tell- didn't seem easily fazed.

"Where is your Dad tonight then?" you ask, noticing the man's missing presence behind the bar.

Brendan looks at you, as if he'd forgotten you were even there, then slowly puts down his drink,

"Out," he bites, eyes dark as his mood seems to be broken beyond repair, "he never works on weekends."

"Oh," you pause, unsure of whether you should stay or leave as the man's bad mood increases, "so, were you supposed to be running the place tonight?"

The man glances at you, then back down at his glass. He leans forward and motions towards the bar, where a young woman with blonde, curly hair is pouring drinks with shaky hands and a look of determined concentration,

"My sister," he says simply, tapping the edge of his glass and running his thumb across the rim.

A heavy silence falls upon you both again and you quickly polish off your drink. You slam the glass on the table then stand to your feet, ready to leave,

"Well, I better get going, me," you say, pulling on your jacket, "I've got work early."

The man nods, still lost in his thoughts, then rises to his feet and walks you through the punters to the door. He opens the heavy door for you and you walk out, turning back to him before you leave.

"Thanks," you say, "for the drink."

"No problem," he replies, voice low and mouth twitching in a half-hearted smile.

You both stand in the dark, staring at each other. The outside street is eerily quiet and you briefly wonder where all the people have disappeared to. You watch as the man leans against the door, one arm propped up against the frame as he regards you with hooded eyes. You shift awkwardly as your feet remain rooted to the ground, and somewhere in the depths of your mind you wonder why you're not moving. You wonder what you're waiting for. Suddenly the man steps forward, face steady and focused as he walks towards you. You can feel him desperately close to you, and without warning your heart starts to pick up speed in your chest. He looks down at you and he's so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face. You inhale, you're not sure you're breathing anymore, and as he stops before you you pray that he can't see your pulse racing beneath the skin of your throat.

Suddenly, he leans forward and says,

"Night, Steven."

Before you know it the man has stepped away from you and is heading back into the pub, door slamming behind him as you're left in the cold night air. The silence is deafening and the beat of your heart sounds like a war drum in your ears. You exhale a slow, steady breath and try to calm down. You tell yourself you were afraid of him because of his bad mood.

As you walk across the road towards your hotel, you vaguely hear the rustle of footsteps behind you. Your heart begins to hammer in your chest again and you wonder if he's following you. You stop and look over your shoulder, but you see nothing. Confused, you take a few steps forward again, but as you walk you suddenly feel a blunt object connect with the back of your head and immediately you fall to the ground with a thud.

Your head throbs as you feel your body being picked up from the pavement, two hands fiercely grabbing your biceps and dragging you into a side alley beside your hotel. You cry out and a stabbing pain shoots through your body as you're harshly dumped on the ground beside a large trash can. The smell of rot and rubbish fills your nostrils.

You look up and it feels like you're peering through a misty haze. Two men are standing in front of you -no, not men, boys- two boys are standing in front of you. One has a crowbar in his hand and the other is standing by his side, nervously looking from side to side as if scared he will be caught at any moment. They're both dressed in dirty, worn tracksuits and they haven't even bothered to wear masks. You notice that one of the boys has a mole on his lip and you can't help but stare it at while he sneers at you. Their movements are quick and erratic, like they want this done quickly, and it doesn't take you long to realize that they haven't done this much before. Nevertheless, the glint of their weapons makes your blood run cold.

The attacker holding the crow bar steps forward and kicks you in the ribs, then demands that you hand over your wallet. You squirm, the taste of blood sending waves of nausea through you as you fight the urge to vomit. Your eyes sting with tears and you can't believe this is happening to you.

"Hand it over!" he screams in your face, leaning down and kicking you in the ribs once again.

You twist your body, trying to protect yourself from the blows whilst crying out in pain. Your mind is struggling to keep up with what's happening and the longer it takes you to give them what they want, the more agitated they become. You hear the boy's accomplice tell him to _hurry up,_ that they _don't have time,_ and suddenly you see a flash in the light as the guy with the crowbar raises the weapon above his head, ready to crash it down on you. You close your eyes, preparing for the blow that you're sure is going to come. Instead, nothing happens. You hear commotion beside you and the sound of men grunting and yelling in protest causes you to open your eyes and see what's going on.

You watch in shock as a third man wrestles with the attacker holding the crow bar. A tremor of terror passes through you as you wonder if a third assailant is joining in, but after a moment you realize that this third man is trying to pry the weapon from the other man's hand. You will yourself to stand up and shakily your legs oblige. You reach out for the cracks in the brickwork to help you to your feet. You peer from the corner of your eyes at the scene playing out before you, panic-stricken as you look at the three men grapple for dominance. The men are yelling and screaming obscenities at each other, but their thick accents make it impossible for you to understand them.

Finally, the third stranger fiercely reaches out and grabs the crow bar from the assailant, pulling it into his own hands and beating the second man with the end of it in a blunt blow. The attacker lets out a yell and stumbles forward, holding the back of his head with a bloody hand. Without another word, he quickly runs from the alley and out into the dark street, leaving his friend to face the wrath.

You continue to watch as the dark stranger walks slowly forward, looking down at the remaining, cowering assailant who is curled up on the ground. You hear the man on the ground begging for mercy, telling him he was just going to take your money, but the stranger reaches down and violently pulls the man to his feet and slams him against the wall. The thud of his skull as it hits the brick sends a shiver down your spine.

"Touch him again," you hear the man whisper, voice menacingly low, "and I'll kill ye."

With those words the stranger lets go and the last remaining attacker runs into the street as fast as his legs can carry him. You've never seen someone run so fast before. Slowly, the man who saved you turns towards you, face covered by the shadows. He throws the crow-bar to the ground with a heavy clunk, then walks over to you slowly. You can hear his harsh, ragged breaths. Your heart pounds as you squint against the darkness, trying to see his face. As he steps closer to you, your eyes widen as you finally see who it is,

"Brendan?" you ask, confused.

The man nods, head low and eyes downcast, avoiding your gaze. You swallow, completely dumbstruck as suddenly the reality of what has just happened falls down upon you like a heavy weight. You feel the shock pump your heart and suddenly you are bent over, retching, as if you're about to throw up. You feel a hand on your back and slowly you look up into a set of concerned, blue eyes.

"Come on," he says, quietly, "let's get you inside."

He reaches out to grab your hand as you slump against the wall, body sagging and weak. You look into his eyes and he's staring back at you with an unsettling intensity. You shake your head, completely baffled, then reach out and take his hand in yours and pull yourself up. He supports you as you both stumble out of the dark alley and into the Hotel.


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews. I'm absolutely blown away!- B. _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 5**

You open the door to your room and hobble in as Brendan supports you with an arm around your waist. Slowly he sets you on the edge of your large, king-sized bed and immediately walks into the bathroom; his movements quick and mercurial. You listen to the steady stream of water in the sink as you sit motionless on the quilt. Your whole body feels sore and your ribs ache as you slowly press your hand to your stomach and wince. You let out a low mewl and from the bathroom you hear Brendan's movements stop.

"You OK?" he asks.

"No," you reply, annoyed, "I'm fucking not OK."

"Fuck, sorry for breathing," he snaps, grumbling something low under his breath.

You hear him shuffling in the bathroom, then listen carefully as the Irish man turns the tap off and walks into the bedroom with a warm, soaked cloth in his hands. His hands are dripping as he sits down beside you and tells you to look at him.

"It's OK, I'll do it myself," you argue, face contorting against him.

"Shut up, will you?" he says, "just fucking look at me, OK? Stop being a stubborn little arsehole for once in your life."

A rush of blood runs to your face and you can feel yourself turning red. With fierce, dark eyes you look up at him and you notice that his blue eyes look black in the shadow of the room. You look away from him as he leans forward and begins to dab a cut on your cheek, carefully patting the area with the cloth. You feel the warm, damp material hit your skin and your nerves twitch in pain as it hits the raw wound.

"Fuck," you hiss, taking in a sharp breath.

"It's OK," he hushes you, as if fed up with your whining, "just a scratch."

"Easy for you to say," you moan, "you didn't just get mugged."

"Ha," he snorts out a laugh, "you think I've never got mugged before, lad?"

You peer up at him, surprised. He glances at you with a raised eyebrow and his mouth twitches as he continues to clean the bruises on your face. You can feel the hairs on your arms raise as he leans into you and you can feel his free arm beside your thigh on the bed. Your senses are acute and your proximity to him makes your heart beat just a little bit faster. It makes you want to run.

"I don't get it," you say suddenly, breaking the silence, "why did they pick me?"

The man is silent as he leans back and observes the heavy blood on the cloth. He folds the material over until the clean side is exposed and then looks you dead in the eye,

"Dunno," he shrugs, "probably just saw you walking out of the pub in your fancy suit and thought you were an easy target."

"God," you groan, putting your head in your hands.

You feel a hand on your back as the older man assures you that everything is OK. You look up at him through lowered lashes,

"I suppose I should thank you," you finally mutter, sitting up straight on the bed, "you're like my guardian...leprechaun or something."

The look on his face at being called a leprechaun causes you to erupt into peels of laughter. The noise pours from your mouth in an unstoppable array of snorts and chuckles, until the dark face of the man beside you causes your laughter to stop abruptly.

"Don't call me that again," he warns, face downcast, "_ever."_

You straighten up and try to stop yourself from grinning, happy that you managed to annoy him for once instead of the other way around. You both fall into silence as the older man hands you the cloth and tells you to hold it to your blackened eye for a moment, _to soothe the swelling_. You do as you're told, pressing the heated cloth to your eye and tensing at the dull pain. As you stare at the older man, you're suddenly overcome with curiosity about him. You think back to the heated conversation between him and the man at the bar earlier and out of nowhere you boldly ask,

"So, are you feeling better now?"

The man peers up at you with a furrowed brow, confused.

"What?" he asks, "shouldn't I be asking you that? Like you said, I'm not the one who just got mugged."

"I'll live," you reply, matter-of-factly.

"Mm," he looks at you, "tough little fucker, aren't you?"

There's a glint of something in his eyes -looks like admiration- and you feel like telling him you're not brave, just good at hiding the fear.

"Anyway," he breaks the silence, "what were we saying?"

"I was asking if you felt better," you say.

"Oh yeah," he muses, as if still confused, "why wouldn't I? I feel fine. Better than you, anyway."

"Earlier," you continue, suddenly regretting your decision to ask, "I saw you talking to that guy at the bar...seemed kind of heated."

Brendan's eyes darken at the mention of the younger man and he looks across the room and out the window towards the night sky. You watch him silently, wondering if he's even going to answer at all.

"Vinnie," the man nods, shifting his eyes to the floor, "yeah, that was...he's no one."

"What were you two fighting about?" you continue, and you see Brendan visibly tense.

"Nothing," he mumbles, "it was nothing. Just an ex-barman coming back for something that didn't belong to him."

"Oh," you reply, confused.

"Yeah," the man smiles meekly, eyes low, "anyway, doesn't matter..."

He turns towards you and grabs the cloth from your hand. You open your mouth to protest, but the words don't come out in time as he turns your face towards him.

"Shut up," he says, before you even have a chance to speak, then leans forward to press the cloth to a cut near your eye, "your face is bleeding,"

The man seems even closer than before and you immediately feel your breath seize in your throat. You can feel the heat from his hand on your face, as his palm lightly grazes your cheek under the cloth. The room begins to feel smaller, like you're being trapped between the walls. You try to avoid Brendan's gaze, but something in your bones forces you to look at him until eventually you can't look away. He's staring back at you, eyes dark and powerful against the dim light of the room. Suddenly your heart is hammering against your chest so hard that you're positive he can hear it- positive it's going to burst through the bone and out onto the crisp, white bed sheets. The man turns and reaches for an anti-septic bottle, which you assume he found in the bathroom. He dabs the cloth with a splash of the liquid and slowly places it to the wound on your cheek.

"Ouch!" you hiss, "watch it!"

You reach up to grab the cloth from his hand and you feel your fingers brush against his. You open your eyes and freeze as you realize how close your face is to his. The silence in the air around you is thick as you both stare at each other and suddenly you feel his fingers slowly moving over yours, while both your hands remain stuck to the cloth.

Where his fingers touch, your skin burns.

Your heart thumps as the man leans forward and raises his free hand from the bed. Slowly, he places his fingers on your face and touches the skin of your cheek. There's a look in his eyes, a look you've never seen a man give you before, and the touch of his fingers on your skin causes adrenaline to shoot through your body at an unstoppable speed. You immediately jump up from the bed to your feet; your body is shaking.

"What are you doing_?_" you ask, voice steady though your mind is racing.

Your eyes frantically search his as you look down at him on the bed. You don't want to look at him, but his eyes pull your attention back and you can't ignore him. You put your hand to your head and repeat yourself,

"What are you _doing_?"

You feel your cheeks burn with heat as you look down at the man's startled, blue eyes. He seems calm and collected as he looks at you, as if he didn't just try to do what he did, and you feel fire in your stomach as you stare at him. What the fuck just happened?

"Jesus, I'm married!" you say, holding out your hands, "I've got a daughter. I'm not...I'm not..._"_

You watch as the man slowly stands to his feet and steps towards you. You step back, afraid of what might happen if he gets any closer. His hooded eyes take you in and slowly, painfully, he says,

"Sorry."

Before you can even form the words to respond, he's already grabbed his coat and exited the room.

You sit down on your bed, heart pumping blood ferociously to all parts of your body. You groan.

What the _fuck_ just happened?

Xoxox

Tonight, the dream is different.

It begins the same as always, you crying at the bottom of a balcony while a police officer holds you back from the man you desperately long to be with. The pain is the same throbbing, intense ache in your heart as you struggle to free yourself from the officer holding you in position. The gunshots fire and your turn into the police-man's chest, sobbing until your ribs wrack under the immense pressure. Only this time, the dream doesn't end there.

You feel the officer's arms slacken around you as the whole town descends into silence. The silence seems to go on forever and you open your eyes to look out at the scene. In that moment, you glance up at the balcony through tear-stained eyes and see the dark outline of a man on the ground. You blink, mind unable to take in what's just happened, then suddenly you pull yourself from the arms holding you and emit an unholy sound; a sound sent straight from the depths of Hell itself. With your scream, the people surrounding you descend into panic and the useless chatter fills your ears as you fiercely pull yourself from the officer's arms and run towards the bottom of the steps.

This time you reach the staircase, pushing and punching anyone who dares to stop you; you take the steps two at a time. Your breaths are sharp and ragged in your ears as you reach the top and look over at the man lying on the ground. You feel your heart drop into your stomach as you look at his lifeless body, your World, lying in a dishevelled heap.

_No_ you say, the sound of your voice alien to your own ears, _No, no, no._

You quickly step forward and drop to your knees beside the man, taking his face into your hands and looking down at it. His features are indecipherable under the blood that has pooled around him from the wound in his chest. Your pulse throbs under your skin and you're making sounds like a crying, mewling dog. Unholy, ghastly sounds that frighten you to the depths of your soul. You lean down and press your lips to the man's face, tasting the raw, iron blood on your lips as you stroke his hair. All you can say is one word: _No._

You wake up with a start just as the sun is peeking through the windows. The tears on your face have soaked your pillowcase, you can feel the damp under your hand, and your sweat-covered body struggles and strains as your ribs rise and fall erratically. You look at the clock by your bedside and once again it is five minutes until your alarm is about to go off. You get up and immediately bolt to the shower, trying to scrub the memory from your mind and body. The intensity of the dream has startled you and in the shower you find yourself tasting salty tears through the streams of water running down your face.

As you get changed and look at yourself in the mirror, you resolutely decide that you're going to get some anxiety medication. You need to see someone about these dreams. Anyone. You simply can't continue to ignore them, not when they're this strong. Not when they leave you reeling for hours afterwards, unable to do anything without thinking about them.

You walk over to your wardrobe to grab your tie, when suddenly your eye catches a blood-stained cloth on your bedside table. You pause, then walk over to pick it up. You hold it in your hand and your spine tingles as you remember what happened last night.

_Sorry._

That's all he'd said to you before he left. After he'd tried to...

You shake your head to rid yourself from the memory. It's not that you have anything against gay people. Gay marriage had been legal in all countries since 2060 and people are pretty liberal about it now...but people still have their prejudices. It's something some people still can't accept, even now, and even though you aren't one of those people, you just aren't gay. It's not something you are.

You stand, rooted to the spot as you inspect the blood stained cloth. After a moment you quickly step into the bathroom, run the water and place the cloth in it with some soap to get the stains out. You then proceed to get dressed, about to head to the office. Before you leave the room, you get a phone call from your boss. You stare at the screen, heart pounding. This is the first time he's called since you missed your meeting yesterday and you're terrified to hear what he has to say. Shakily, you press the 'answer' button.

"H-hello?" you clear your throat of nerves, "Steven Hay here."

"Steven?" his gruff voice answers, "how are you?"

Menial small talk makes your palms sweat. Your nerves are frazzled as you nod into the phone, licking your lips,

"Fine," you respond, "you, sir?"

"Not good, Steven," he says, "especially not after hearing one of my workers didn't arrive for the most important meeting of his career!"

You can sense his anger as you pause on the other end, mouth dry and on the verge of hyperventilating. You're not sure if your heart can take the pressure of this day.

"Sir, I am..." you pause, because no words can explain how much you mean what you're about to say, "I am _so SORRY _for not turning up to that meeting. You see, circumstances arose and-"

"Don't give me excuses," he speaks low, and you feel the threat even though his tone isn't heavy, "you know I don't accept them.

"Yes sir," you feel your body deflate as you sit on the bed, "I'm so sorry. I have no other words."

"Yes, well..." you hear him fidgeting on the other side of the phone, telling his assistant to _send out the mail,_ "yes, well...anyway Hay I've got something to tell you..."

You feel your eyes water as you hold your breath on the other side of the phone. You prepare your begging speech as you wait, wondering what it would take to let you keep your job. Your body tingles with anticipation, then suddenly the line crackles and he speaks,

"The boys upstairs have arranged to let you have another meeting, Hay," he says, and you're sure you've misheard.

"E-excuse me?" you ask, afraid he'll change his mind, "another chance?"

"You've got nine lives, Steven," the man snorts, "don't blow it this time. They're going to be in town till the end of the week and we've arranged to extend your trip until then."

"Really?" you ask, voice pitching as a smile spreads across your face, "so I'm here for another week?"

"Looks that way," he mutters, "don't blow it this time, Steven. No excuses!"

"No, I won't sir," you blabber, and you're not sure you can form coherent sentences, "I won't, I promise. Jesus, thank you!"

"Yeah, yeah," he brushes you off, "just do your job this time."

"Of course," you cough, trying to remain professional but finding it hard.

"They're expecting you in the office today to hash out the details," he says, "so be there in twenty minutes."

"I will, sir," you nod, though he can't see you, "I'll go right now."

"Good good," he mumbles, "goodbye, Steven."

The line goes dead and you feel numb as you put down the phone and lie down, heart racing. You wonder how the Hell you got so lucky.

As you walk through the lobby of the hotel and out into the street, you pause as you look across the road at 'Fitzcarraldo's' bar. Your feet root to the spot as the front door opens and out walks a moustached man, dressed entirely in black while his pale skin seems to glow under the pale sky. He snaps his eyes on you and, without thinking, you raise your hand to wave meekly. The man stands to his full height and looks at you, no tick or twitch on his face giving anything away, then quickly he turns on his heel and walks back into the pub without a backward glance.

You drop your hand and a sinking feeling throbs in your chest. You wonder with irritation what reason the Irish man has to be upset with you, when you were the one he came on to? You shake your head, ignoring the tight feeling in your stomach, and proceed towards your office building.

In the meeting you feel like your whole World is falling into place, as men in suits explain to you when and where your meeting with the _'Smith and West' _ executives will be. You listen intently, nodding at every word and scribbling notes into your diary as a reminder. Nothing will ruin this for you this time and you'll make sure of that. Every detail will be perfect. When the meeting is over and you've been told everything you need to know, you walk out of the room feeling like you're on Cloud nine.

You step out of the building and immediately feel the rain against your cheek. You look up at the dark, clouded sky and wonder why the weather isn't working cohesively with your mood. You quickly walk down the road until you find yourself standing outside the familiar deli that you found yesterday. Without a second thought you decide to celebrate your good fortune with a cup of coffee.

Inside, the smell of espresso fills your nostrils and underneath you can detect the faint aroma of melted chocolate. You inhale deeply, then walk over to the counter where the American owner is replacing one of the shelves with a fresh batch of chocolate muffins.

"Oh hey," the man smiles, peering up from the shelf, "it's you again."

"Sure is," you chirp, face beaming, "something smells good!"

"Oh yeah, that's the muffins," he points down at his creation with a proud smile, "it's my Mom's secret. Can't tell you the recipe but I can tell you they taste good."

You laugh and for once it doesn't feel phony.

"I'll take one," you say, "and a cup of coffee."

"Coming right up," he replies, turning around to make it for you, "you seem in a better mood today."

"Oh, yeah," you feel a glow in your stomach at how well your day has gone, "it all worked out in the end. Problem sorted."

"That's great!" the man exclaims, and you feel like he genuinely cares even though you're a stranger.

"Yeah," you nod, "I guess you were right...or your Dad was, at least."

"Yeah," he chuckles, "Dad's old sayings at least have a hint of truth to them."

The man pours your coffee into a paper cup and pulls a fresh muffin from the shelf. He hands them to you in a brown, paper bag and smiles,

"Anything else?" he asks.

"No thanks, how much do I owe you?" you reach into your wallet.

"No," he puts up his hand to stop you, "it's on the house."

You pause and look around, as if he's not speaking to you at all.

"You serious?" you ask, puzzled.

"In celebration of your good day," he smiles, holding out his hands, "seriously, the World is full of crap. Good days should be savoured."

You tentatively put your hand on the bag and hold it to you. You marvel at the man's generosity, never having known someone who would be willing to give without the need for anything in return.

"Wow, thank you," you smile widely, "appreciate it!"

You turn around and walk out the door, wondering how this day could possibly get any better; in awe of how quickly things can turn around.

As you walk back to your hotel, you find your eyes drawn towards the pub opposite it. The rain is falling heavily now and your hair is soaked as the droplets roll down your face and over your eyes. Your mind tells you to go to your room and relax in the glow of your good day, but something in your stomach twitches as you remember the Irish man's eyes the night before. The way he looked at you before he left...the way he touched you.

You look away from the pub towards the hotel and suddenly you're having an internal battle in the middle of the street. You take a few steps towards the hotel, then abruptly stop and turn towards the pub. The more you think about it, the more determined you are to confront the older man. Who does he think he is doing something like that, when you hardly know him at all? Who is he to think that you would be interested in something like that? You can feel the heat rising in your face as you brood and smoulder over it, and as you remember his face this morning when you waved at him in the street -when he completely ignored your existence- you immediately feel something snap inside you.

Quickly you pound over the pavement and across the road, into the bar.


	6. Chapter 6

_Well, I've just got back from my trip (which was actually in Dublin!) and the time away didn't have as big an impact on my updating as much as I thought it would, so that's good! Once again, thank you all so much for the reviews. I'm glad everyone is enjoying the story. I'm sorry if the wait is frustrating, but I'm someone who loves the build-up and the tension :) I assure you, everything will come together...eventually. Having said that, here's the next chapter!_

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 6**

You push open the door to the pub and immediately feel your resolve decrease. You begin to wonder if this is a good idea after all, but something hot and burning in your gut wills you to carry on. You march up to the bar and immediately realize that Brendan isn't there. Instead a blonde woman with curly hair is behind the till, pouring a glass of black ale for a customer with a look of deepest concentration. When she successfully pulls the pint, the woman smiles brightly and passes the customer his drink. You've seen this woman before and you vaguely remember Brendan telling you she is his sister.

You wait at the bar, nervously tapping your fingers on the wooden counter. Finally you glance up at the woman, who is walking over to you with a beaming grin.

"Can I get you something, Hon?" she asks, thick Belfast accent coming through her lips.

You turn your body towards her and feel your cheeks flush.

"Is Brendan here?" you ask, stuttering over the words, "I need to talk to him."

She furrows her brow and flicks her blue eyes up towards the sky thoughtfully, then looks back at you and shakes her head,

"Sorry love, I think he said he was out for the day," she says, her expression regretful, "were you supposed to meet him or something?"

"No, no," you shake your head and wave away the thought in a single, dismissive gesture, "I just needed to talk to him about...something."

She looks at you with sparkling eyes and you momentarily notice how different she seems from her brother. Cheryl seems lively, whilst Brendan looks like death warmed up sometimes. You wonder how two people who seem so different could be related.

"Well, do you want me to say you dropped by?" she asks, taking a damp cloth and wiping down the counter. Her eyes glance between you and the work she's doing, as she adds, "Do you want me to leave him a message or something?"

"No!" you reply, a little too quickly, "I mean...no, it's fine. I'll see him around. Don't leave a message."

The woman seems slightly concerned. She looks up at you with a down-turned expression,

"Are you sure, love?" she asks, "Brendan can be hard to get a hold of sometimes. Might be better to leave a message."

You raise an eyebrow, confused because your problem with the Irishman seems to be getting rid of him rather than getting in touch with him. You shake your head,

"No," you smile, a polite twist of the lips, "it's fine. It's nothing, really."

"No worries, love," she says, "but if you come back later he should be here. No idea where he disappears off to! One minute I'm standing talking to him and the next minute I turn my head and he's gone!"

The lady let's out a loud, belly laugh and looks at you to join in. You don't know Brendan well enough to appreciate the joke, but you laugh nonetheless and slowly start to back away.

"Well, thanks anyway," you smile and wave, "bye."

"Bye bye," she says, continuing to giggle as you walk away.

As you exit the building you let out a long breath of relief. Part of you is glad he wasn't there, but the other part still wants answers from him. You're not quite sure what you're seeking to find out from the man, but all you know is that the memory of his hand on your face continues to haunt your thoughts.

You slowly walk back to your hotel.

You spend most of the day in your room raiding the mini-bar and watching mind-numbing television. You sit on your bed eating Macademia nuts, crunching at the contents of the box until none are left. It's not like you to mindlessly eat, but there's an anxiety in your stomach that you feel only food can fill. You can still feel the burn of his fingers on your skin...the thought makes your blood run cold.

You feel your phone vibrate beside you. You pick it up, look at the screen and see you have one new message... from Amy. You haven't spoken to her in days, bar a single text telling her that your signal is bad in the hotel. Apart from that, she has remained the least of your concerns. You feel guilt gnaw at your conscience. You read the message:

_Call me x. _

You drop the phone and chew idly on the last nut left in the can. You sit up in the bed and cross your legs as you pick up the phone and decide to call her. You wait for her to answer, slightly nervous about what she's going to say. Finally, she picks up;

"Ste?" she asks.

"Yeah, it's me," you reply.

"I was worried," she says, voice dropping slightly when she realizes you've been ignoring her, "I thought you were hurt or something. You haven't replied to any of my messages or calls."

"I'm sorry," you sigh, and you genuinely are, "I've just been so busy here. I get in from the office late and then go straight back to the hotel, I'm exhausted!"

You hear her breaths on the other side of the phone and you can picture her perfectly; blonde hair tied back in tight curls, rolling her blue eyes at the phone whilst feeding Pauline. These types of conversations seem like routines now; she calls you and makes you feel guilty for not being in touch, you feel guilty but continue to ignore her calls. Nothing ever changes. The repetitiveness of it makes you feel like you're on a merry-go-round and can't get off. You're sick of playing.

"I promise I'll keep in touch more," you lie, and it falls easily from your lips like melted butter, "I promise."

She's silent on the line and for a moment you wonder if she's so sick of hearing the same lies that she's hung up. Finally, she exhales and says,

"Fine," her tone is exasperated, "_please _do. I really worry about you when you're gone. I'm just glad you'll be home soon."

Your body freezes and your eyes widen. You realize that you haven't told her your trip has been extended. You remember swearing that you would wait a while to tell her, thinking it would be better to deliver the news when you had time to break it gently. However, time went by and you never made the phone-call. Now you know she is going to react badly.

"Uh," you mumble, scratching your neck, "yeah, about that..."

"Ste..." her tone is a warning.

"Yeah, my trip got extended," you blurt it out, figuring it's best not to delay the inevitable, "I'm going to be here for another week."

"_Ste," _she's furious, "why didn't you tell me?"

You hear her moving up from her chair and pacing the room on the other side of the phone. You try to calm her down, but her voice is frantic as she berates you for never letting her know these things.

"I'm sorry, OK? I can't help it," you explain, "they need me here, I can't change that."

"_We_ need you," she finally yells, "me and Pauline, your family!"

You freeze on the other side of the phone and your heart drops. You know she's right, and the feeling of the truth weighs heavily on your conscience. She knows she's hit a raw nerve by questioning your role as a father. Suddenly, you feel your insides burn red with anger and you resent her more than you ever have before.

"Well maybe if you weren't out spending all the money I make, I wouldn't have to work so hard to earn it back!" you shout, face red and inflamed as you clench the phone in your fist, "ever think about that?"

The phone line goes dead and all your can hear is the harshness of your breath on the line. Your anger is pulsing through your veins and suddenly you need to do something, _hit something,_ and with a ferocious growl you rear back and hurl your phone across the room. It hits the wall and slams to the ground, but you know it's not broken. You've thrown it hundreds of times before and not once has it broken.

You pull yourself from the bed and walk to the mini-bar, pulling out bottles of alcohol one-by-one. You can't help but think there's not enough, no matter how much you grab. You set the bottles on the bed and start by pouring yourself a glass of Brandy, letting the burning liquid dull your senses and calm you. You step over to the window and look over to the bar on the other side of the street. You think about the man inside, serving drinks to evening customers just home from work. You can't stop your mind from wandering as you think about the look in his eyes the night before, as he cleaned your wounds. You think back to the moment when you asked him if he'd ever been married, had a girlfriend, kids...only now do you realize why he has none of those things.

What you don't understand is why he thought you would want what he wanted from you? Why would the man try to kiss you, knowing you were married and had a child? No matter how hard you try, you cannot stop the question from turning and twisting in your mind, cutting into your sub-conscious like a knife. You need answers.

So you decide to get them.

You put down your glass on your bedside table and grab your jacket from the side of the room, the jumper and jeans you're wearing not enough to shield you from the cold night air. You step out into the dark-blue evening and cross the street; realizing with bitterness that going to this pub is fast becoming an unwanted ritual for you.

You walk into the pub and look around with wide eyes. It seems emptier than usual, but the bustle of the place still remains the same. You slide cautiously past a number of drunken, older men who are watching a football game at the side of the room. You jump as a player hits a goal and the small group erupts into a loud bout of cheers and screams. One man turns around to high-five you and you timidly comply, though you have no idea what you're high-fiving. As the man turns away from you you glance towards the bar and see the familiar, dark-haired man staring at you from behind. You feel embarrassed as you see the twitch of a smile on his face, obviously figuring out that you're not much of a sports fan. You walk over and sit on a worn, wooden stool and glance at him through lowered eyelids;

"What can I do for you, Steven?" he asks, pouring pints busily.

"I think we need to talk," you say, eyes fixed on his frame.

"Really?" he replies, casually.

He glances at you for a moment.

"Yes, I do," you say, "Last night, you-"

"Sorry, one minute," he says, becoming distracted.

He moves across the table to tell an older man to stop smoking his pipe in the pub. When he steps back, he's only there a moment before he needs to leave again. You try to speak to him, to get out your words, but you can't help the swell of annoyance that bubbles up when a group of men swamp over to the bar and start talking to Brendan. You see them slapping his shoulder, bantering with him as he hits them back with a quick, biting wit. The men laugh in front of you and you feel your face morph into an angry frown. You came here to talk about something important, something Brendan initiated, and he won't even do you the courtesy of listening. In fact, the Irishman's seeming disregard for anything to do with last night makes you paranoid that you made the whole thing up in your head.

Brendan glances at you and immediately realizes that you're annoyed. He turns to the men and quiets them, telling them he needs to work and that they should go back to their wives and stop annoying the crap out of him. They all laugh and immediately disband, leaving you both alone.

After serving the last customer lined up at the bar, Brendan turns to you and leans over the table, eyes focused on his arms in quiet concentration.

"OK," he says finally, eyes slowly moving up to yours, "you wanted to talk about something?"

"Yes," you bite, "I did."

"So..." the man looks at you, then moves his hand in a rotating motion, "_talk."_

You huff out an irritated guffaw.

"Well it's not exactly that simple, is it?" you say, infuriated at him for being so casual.

"Talking isn't simple?" he shrugs, "you said you wanted to talk, so talk."

"Well I thought _you_ would want to talk as well," you hiss, "after last night!"

"What happened last night?" the man looks at you, eyes not giving away the tiniest flicker of emotion.

You feel the blood rush to your face as your eyes narrow on him. You don't know what annoys you more, the fact that he's denying it or the fact that he's so convincing, it makes you believe you imagined it. You know you didn't though. You know it happened. You remember it clearly.

"You _know_ what happened," you mumble through gritted teeth, head menracingly low, "don't deny it. You tried to kiss me and I want to know why!"

Brendan looks at you and slowly rises up to his full height. He looks down at you in your seat. The Irishman has a way of making you feel like a child with just a look and it makes you wonder if he can see the very thoughts in your head. You're not sure if you can hide anything from him- like your face gives the game away. Suddenly, you see his expression break and he rolls his eyes;

"What do you mean, w_hy?"_ he asks, as if the question is ridiculous, "isn't it kind of obvious? I thought you were smart."

You lean back, shocked by the blasé nature of the response. You shake your head and wrinkle your nose; confused at how something so simple could fail to make sense in your mind. You feel like all the pieces of the puzzle are there and you don't know how to correctly put them together. Your mind is muddled.

"So..." you pause, unsure whether to go on, "are you..."

The man sighs before you even have time to say the word and you can see the annoyance flash on his face. His movements become erratic as he slides a hand back through his hair and over his face. You pause mid-sentence, unsure of whether you should continue. You sense you shouldn't. You decide to ask a different question;

"Did I..." you pause, mid-thought, then continue, "did I lead you on or-"

"What? _No,_" the man snaps, face contorted angrily.

He looks like he'd rather disappear than be talking about this.

"Look," he leans over and puts his hand on the table in front of you, as if hashing out the plans of a business deal, "let's just forget about it, yeah? It never happened."

You shake your head, even more puzzled than before. You came here for answers and you feel like this man can't give them to you. You're not sure if even he knows why he did what he did. You continue to speak,

"I just don't know why-"

"I got my wires crossed," the man interrupts, looking you dead in the eyes, trying to stop you from saying another word, "I made a mistake, right? seriously, just...please."

You look at the Irishman with wide eyes, while he creaks his neck and looks down at a spot on the counter; hands perched on the wood as if he needs the support. You lean back in your seat and watch as the man quietly steps back and grabs a bottle from the top shelf of the liquor cabinet. The bottle has a black label that you can't read and you think it's written in Gaelic. You watch as he grabs a thick, squared glass and pours a shot into the bottom in front of you. He puts the bottle away then pushes the glass towards you slowly, with two fingers. You stare at him for a moment, unsure of why he's giving it to you.

"Here," he finally says, leaning back against a cupboard. He fold shis arms casually and glances up at you, "think of it as an apology."

You look at the glass and hesitantly pick it up; smelling it. The aroma of alcohol is pungent and suddenly you feel like coughing, but fortunately you manage to stop yourself. You glance up at Brendan, who is looking at you intently, then slowly press the rim of the glass to your lips and take a sip.

"Apology accepted," you reply, licking your lips.

"Good," he nods,

He turns like he's about to walk away from you -conversation over- but suddenly you see him stop. After a moment of hesitation, he says,

"Thanks."

The word sounds like it's been dragged from his lips.

"It's OK," you reply.

You guess it is.

"Good," he says again, giving a single nod before he walks on, "good."

Before you can blink, Brendan is working hard behind the bar pouring pints and shots for customers, who seem to come from nowhere. Time goes by easily and it feels like nothing ever happened between you. An awkwardness has been lifted from the air. The Irishman casually chats to you about your day, and you can't help but feel like last night's incident will be much easier to brush aside than you initially expected. In fact, the man is so casual with you -so good at acting like nothing happened- that you start to wonder if maybe the incident was just a lapse in judgement. An accident that he didn't mean to do it at all. The thought eases your mind.

While you're talking to Brendan, you suddenly feel the warmth of a body on the stool beside yours and you turn your head to look. As you do, you find yourself locking eyes with a young, blonde man. The man looks at you, blue eyes examining yours as his long arms settle down beside you, leaning on the bar. Suddenly, the man's eyes snap from yours and immediately connect with something in front of you. You turn your head slowly and realize that he is staring at Brendan. Not only that, but the dark-haired man is staring right back with an intensity that is startling to you.

You can feel the tension in the air and suddenly you feel caught in the middle of a danger zone.

As you look from Brendan to the blond-haired man, you suddenly realize that you recognize this stranger; that he's the same man you saw Brendan speaking to the night before. _Vinnie._

"I need to talk to you," Vinnie sneers; you can immediately tell that he is not from Dublin, "now."

Brendan looks at the glass he's washing, then turns and slams it down on the table. His eyes fall on the blonde man, then slowly drop until he is looking right at you.

"I'll just be a moment, Steven," he says, voice a deep growl in his chest.

The Irishman then flicks his eyes back up to Vinnie and slowly walks around the bar and past him, wordlessly telling the blonde to follow him. Vinnie glances down at you one final time, eyes icy and cold, before following the older man around the bar and into a back room that you assume is an office.

You casually drink your whiskey as you wait for Brendan to return. While you do, your mind begins to wander. You wonder what the two men could possibly be doing that would take so long. The more you think about this, the more your mind creates scenarios that you shouldn't be thinking about. What is Vinnie to Brendan? Is he an ex? The thought makes you feel uneasy and you can't help but glance at your watch when you realize how long they've been gone. Finally, just as you're about to go look for them, Brendan returns alone and walks around you until he is back behind the bar. He says nothing and continues to wash the glass that he'd left behind.

"What did he want?" you ask.

Reading people was never your strong point, but immediately you can tell Brendan doesn't want to talk about it. Still, you can't help yourself from asking.

"Nothing," Brendan coughs, eyes fixed on the glass.

"Didn't look like nothing," you continue.

Brendan's eyes glance up at you and you can hear him exhale loudly. You feel like you're irritating him, and you probably are, but you keep pushing for more.

"Is he your boyfriend?" you ask, boldly.

The man sets the glass hard on the table and looks at you with dark eyes.

"Do you always ask this many questions?" he barks, "Jesus, it's like having a little kid here."

"Just a question," you shrug, ignoring his outburst.

The man freezes, then slowly loosens up and shakes his head at you.

"No," he mumbles, "I don't _do_ boyfriends."

"Really?" you ask, intrigued.

"Ye," he nods, "don't do _commitment_ either. Not all of us are cut out for marriage."

He glances up then, evidently directing the statement at you. You lower your head evasively, as if trying to dodge the words. You feel the blood rush to your face as you think about Amy and immediately you feel a familiar cloud of guilt come over you. You find yourself wishing that you were the kind of man Brendan implies you are; the kind of man who loves being married, having a kid, being _successful._ The kind of man who, on paper, has everything and is satisfied that it's enough...but you're not.

You quickly rise from your seat and mumble that you need to go to the bathroom, anything to get out of talking about marriage. Brendan nods towards the side of the bar in the direction of the men's room.

You walk along the old, wooden floors and dodge the punters on your way, trying to avoid colliding with drunken men who stumble in front of you. You push open the door into the toilets and immediately go over to the sink. You look into the mirror at your reflection and groan at the bags under your eyes, realizing that their the culmination of years of stress. Your hair is dishevelled and you brush a hand through it, trying to fix the strands, but it makes little difference. After a few moments spent gathering yourself, you're about to leave again when suddenly you hear a flush from one of the cubicles. You didn't even know anyone else was in here.

You turn around and watch as the toilet door opens and out walks Vinnie. You look at him as he walks over and washes his hands in the sink beside yours. He glances at you in the mirror, and only as his eyes meet yours do you become aware of how intensely you've been staring at him. You tear your eyes away as he walks over to the dryer and dries his hands. Finally, he turns around and looks at you, thumbs tucked casually into his pockets.

"So, how do you know Brendan?" the man asks, eyes glinting at you in the dark shadows of the bathroom.

You feel nervous all of a sudden, like answering this question right is imperative to what happens next. You swallow, mouth dry, feet shuffling on the ground.

"I don't really," you shrug.

It's the truth. Most of your encounters have been by complete chance.

The man walks towards you, eyebrows raised sceptically as he takes you in.

"You were talking to him for quite a while at the bar," he muses, "seems like you know enough about him."

You feel like you're trapped; like he keeps asking questions and you keep answering them wrong.

"Well, what is it to you _how_ I know him?" you ask, head raised defiantly, "who are _you_ to Brendan?"

The man smiles then, a small curve of pale lips, then looks up at you through fine lashes and laughs.

"God, who am I to Brendan?" he shakes his head, like the question is an enigma, "that depends. If you asked him he'd probably tell you I was nobody..."

"What do you mean?" you ask, confused.

Vinnie stops, eyes disengaging from you for a moment, then suddenly his attention flashes back to you and he walks towards the door.

"Nothing," the man says, "it doesn't really matter. All I'm saying is be careful."

"What?" you shake your head, frowning, "careful of what?"

"Brendan is bad news," he mumbles.

You shake your head, immediately dismissing the thought. However, something in your mind twitches at Vinnie's words.

"How d'ya mean?" you ask, unable to stop yourself.

"Everybody knows it," he shrugs, as if you're crazy for not knowing, "so just stay out of his way or you'll regret it."

With that, Vinnie walks out of the bathroom and leaves you alone with your thoughts. You look in the mirror and your eyes are wide with fear. What did Vinnie mean by that? What exactly is the Irish man capable of? The thought worries you. You try to shake the worries from your head as you quickly walk out of the bathroom, head low and eyes to the floor, but something about Vinnie's words have left you feeling uneasy. You wonder what exactly there is about the Irish man that you don't know. He _is_ a stranger, after all.

You walk up to the bar cautiously and glance at Brendan, who is looking at you with worry in his eyes.

"You OK?" he asks.

"Yeah," you mutter, trying to seem carefree but failing miserably, "look, I think I need to go..."

The man stands up straight and gives you a pointed look. He raises an eyebrow at you,

"You sick or something?" he asks.

"No, no," you shake your head, "I'm fine, really. Got an early day, that's all."

"...OK," the older man nods slowly, sceptically, "right, well I'll see you tomorrow then or something."

"Yeah," you nod, "or something."

You turn and walk out of the bar, feet almost tripping you up as you gain speed. Vinnie's words ring in your ears as you walk across the street and back into the hotel. You don't know why they've left such an impression on you, but they have. Suddenly, you feel like you'd be better off away from the Irish man altogether. After all, you know very little about him, and Vinnie seems to know a lot more about his past than you do.

As you leave the bar, you tell yourself you're going to try and avoid the Irish man for a while. You can't help but think that being around him is quickly becoming more trouble than it's worth and you don't need the hassle of getting caught up in any of his drama with Vinnie. You've only been in Dublin for a couple of days and, after meeting the Irishman, you feel like your head has been more confused and muddled than ever.

As you enter your hotel room, you decide it would be better if you don't see him again.


	7. Chapter 7

_Once again thank you for the reviews. I enjoy reading every single one and it's very interesting to see what people like about each chapter, as well as different thoughts about where it's going. The updates have been pretty regular thus far and that's because I've pre-written up to chapter 10. After this week, I'll be starting back at Uni and won't have time to update quite-so-often, but until then updates will be every few days. Having said that, here's chapter 7. (As per usual, all feedback is welcome :)_

**In Another Life **

**Chapter 7**

The next morning you wake up early and begin your morning routine as usual. You get into the shower, scrub the anxiety from your body with lavender-scented shower gel and quickly get dressed into your work clothes. You look in the mirror before your leave, fix a few errand strands of hair, then glance at your reflection with a look of steely determination. Today, you will make it your mission to avoid the Irishman at all costs.

You exit your room and descend the hotel staircase, feet moving quickly beneath you until you reach the lobby. You pause before exiting the building, taking the time to peer through the large panel windows at the front ,which give a direct view of the pub outside. When you're confident that Brendan is nowhere in sight, you spring into action and walk speedily down the street with your head down. You exhale a breath when you round the first corner, confident that you're no longer visible. You feel certain that you will be able to avoid Brendan, providing you're alert and cautious.

You reach into your pocket to pull out your phone, but as you search yourself your heart skips a beat when you realize it's nowhere to be found. You glance up, eyes unfocused as you search your mind and try to figure out where it could possibly be. You're never without it. With numb realization, you suddenly remember the last time you had your phone. You were in 'Fitzcarraldo's', flicking through your messages, then you'd put it back into the pocket of your jacket, which was resting on the back of your stool. You breath out and lean back against the hard, brick wall when you realize that you have no memory of putting your jacket back on when you left the pub...you'd left it there.

"_Fuck,"_ you hiss.

You wonder if it would be possible to leave the phone and come back for it another day, but you immediately dismiss the idea before it's even fully formed. There's no way you can go a day without your phone, it's impossible. The thought is inconceivable. No, you have to go get it and you need to get it now. Slowly, reluctantly, you walk back in the direction of the pub.

You open the heavy, wooden door and slide in, trying to remain unnoticed. You look over at the bar, unsurprised to see that the Irishman is standing behind it with a frown etched upon his face, as he flicks through a book. You vaguely recognize the cover and it's not long before you realize it's the same book you saw him reading on the plane journey over..._American Psycho. _Almost immediately you realize that you will not be able to collect your jacket without the barman noticing, so you decide to approach with abandon. You straighten your back and hold your head high as you walk along the creaky, wooden floorboards towards to bar. The sound causes the Irishman's eyes to flick up from his novel, but his expression barely wavers as you come closer. Eventually, he manages to grunt out a '_hey.'_

"Hi," you reply, eyes darting between the ground and his face in equal measure.

You both stand in silence, wordlessly staring at each other. Finally, the barman -seemingly fed up with the lack of communication- turns back to his book.

"Can I help you, Steven?" he asks, though his tone implies he can't be bothered.

"Uh, yeah," you finally bumble, your mind focused on other things...like Vinnie's words to you the night before, "did I leave my jacket here last night? It has my phone in it."

Brendan peers at you, then slowly puts down his book and drags his long limbs from their resting position over towards you. You feel your body tense as he gets closer, then relax as he turns away and bends down to reach into a tiny nook beneath the counter. He pulls out a coat and you immediately recognise it as your own.

"This it?" he asks, eyebrow raised as he sets it down on the counter before you.

"That's the one," you smile, then grab the jacket and turn, "thanks, bye!"

You try to make a hasty retreat, but the man stops you before you even have the chance to blink.

"Not so fast," he drawls, walking across the bar back to his book, "where are you heading off to?"

"Work," you reply.

"Hm," he nods, mouth set in a thoughtful pout, "that your plans for the day then, is it? _Work?"_

The older man seems disapproving, even though he's standing in the middle of his bar in the early day-time hours. You find the hypocrisy of it irritating, as if he's implying you're some sort of stiff. You know how to have fun, too.

"Well I've got a busy day, me," you nod, as if trying to convince yourself of the lie, "probably not be out of the office for ages."

The man nods and eyes you up and down, scrutinising every inch of you. You feel your muscles flex under his gaze.

"Fun," he replies, looking back to his book, "have a good one."

With that, you feel like you're free to go. Slowly you turn in your seat and make your way to the door. As you turn back to glance at him, you catch his eyes on you. You quickly look away, face red, but somewhere in your mind you know he is still watching. You're not sure why, but the thought makes your heart race.

Xoxox

It's close to five o'clock when you finally get out of the office.

When you entered through the front doors of work early this morning, everyone was congratulating you on managing to get another meeting with the '_Smith and West_' executives. It seemed like everyone had heard the news and you felt like a celebrity as co-workers and acquaintances, even people you barely knew, all approached you with a smile and their hearty congratulations. In _'Smith and West' _it is a rare occurrence for someone to get a second chance, you know this well, so for you to get another meeting felt like some sort of minor miracle. The people in your office seemed to feel the same way, judging by their reactions. You even managed to get Danny -one of the top managers- to check over your notes to make sure you'd covered everything for the next meeting. The man seemed reluctant to provide you with an edge at first, but when you provided him with some budgeting tips he was only too happy to pay you back.

You exit the office with a smile. It had been a good day.

You make your way to the deli at the corner of the street, a routine you'd grown accustomed to in the few short days you'd been in Dublin. As you enter the delicatessen, you expect to look up and see the owner, but instead you find that he is caught in the middle of a conversation with another customer. The man's thick eyebrows are furrowed as he glances up at the man in front of him, and his face looks serious as he speaks to him in a low mumble. You walk in slowly and the American's eyes immediately shift to you as the bell of the door rings.

"Evening!" you chirp, "me again. Probably sick of seeing me."

You look up with a smile, but as you do you notice that the deli owner is still grimacing at the man in front of him. Your eyes shift focus as the customer slowly turns around to face you, hands stuffed casually into the leather pockets of his jacket. You feel your heart jump into your chest and immediately you are speechless.

"I wouldn't say _sick of you,_ that's a bit harsh," his mouth twitches as he glances at you, "not far off, though."

Your mouth drops open as you look from Brendan, to the owner, then back to Brendan again. The owner looks about as pleased to see him as you are. Somewhere deep inside, you wonder if you were damned from the moment you met the man. You think back to the day when you met him on the pier, when he said he wasn't easy to get rid of...you're beginning to think he was telling the truth. Never in your life have you bumped into someone so much, coincidentally .

"Brendan," your mouth falls open, "what are you doing here?"

"Can't a man get coffee from his good friend?" Brendan looks towards the deli owner, who glares back at him with huge, blue eyes, "Douglas...always a pleasure."

Brendan turns on his heel and walks towards you, coffee clutched in his hand as his free arm swings by his side cockily. He takes up the small space with his very presence. You remain rooted to the spot as the pub owner stops in front of you, invading your personal space, then says,

"I thought you were working all day?" his tone seems more conversational than accusatory, as he takes a sip of coffee, "what happened? Big boys upstairs let you off the leash?"

The man's lips peel back in a wide smile, revealing a row of straight, white teeth. He emits a low laugh and then the expression drops, as quickly as it appeared.

"I was meant to," you reply, mind racing for an excuse, "but they let me out early, didn't they?"

You look into his eyes, relieved when he seems to buy it. You don't want the man to find out you're avoiding him, because he seems like the kind of person who would seek you out _more_ if he were to find out. Though to be honest, 'avoiding him' isn't turning out exactly how you planned.

"OK," he finally says, appeased by your explanation. He nods his head towards the door, "you need a ride home?"

You pause, frantically trying to think of an excuse. You can feel your mouth falling open as the time trickles by, extending out into what feels like an eternity. Brendan raises his eyebrow at you as if you're insane and you're beginning to feel like you are. Finally, you spit out the only answer you can think of:

"No, it's fine," you shake your head, "I like the walk. Love walking, me."

The man looks at you with lowered eyebrows, confused, like the idea is ludicrous.

"Nonsense," he dismisses you, waving the idea away with a flicker of his hand, "why walk when I can drive ye? Follow me."

The decision has been taken out of your hands as the Irishman walks over to the entrance and opens the door for you. He waits, taking up the whole frame, and his dark clothes make him look like a spectre on death's doorstep.

"Come on" he says, when the wait becomes too long, "let's go."

You feel powerless as your whole body deflates. You realize that saying no to this man is impossible. You tell him you'll be five minutes, that you're just getting a coffee and you'll meet him outside. He seems to accept this and you watch as he exits, letting the door snap shut behind him. You walk up to the counter and sigh,

"Can I have a strong coffee, please," you say, "extra strong."

Doug glances from you to the door, then opens his mouth as if to speak. You watch as the American slowly shakes his head, as if he can't find the words, then smiles at you and begins making the coffee. However, as you count out the coins in your wallet, you are highly aware of the American's eyes burning into your skin.

"How do you know Brendan?" the deli-owner (who you now know is called 'Doug') asks as he brews your drink.

"It's a long story," you sigh and glance up at him, realizing how painfully true that statement is, "a long, _weird_ story."

"Right..." Doug replies, expression serious, "have you known him long?"

"Not really," you shrug, "I feel like I've known him forever, though. I've been in Dublin less than a week and I keep running into him everywhere."

"Yeah," Doug snorts, an unamused laugh, "sounds like Brendan."

You glance up at the blue-eyed man and you feel your forehead crease.

"What do you mean by that?" you ask, suddenly frustrated by the cryptic comments people continue to make in regards to the Irish man.

"Look, all I'm saying is keep your distance," Doug says, as he places your coffee on the counter, "that guy has a way of getting under people's skin."

You frown and take the paper cup in your hand, exchanging your money in payment. Vinnie's words to you the night before circle in your head, accompanied by Doug's. You want to ask Doug more questions about the man, but somewhere in your mind you know it will only be responded to with vague and guarded answers. You know if you are going to find out anything about Brendan, you'll have to ask the man himself.

You walk out of the deli and look around for the Irishman. For a moment you contemplate making a run for it, but experience has taught you that the man will eventually pop up again somewhere unexpected. It's a waiting game- one that you're sure the Irish man will win. Finally you spot him near the end of the street, parked by the side of the road. His leather jacket is zipped up mid-torso and his blue jeans are slung low on his waist. As you approach, your eyes widen as you fixate upon the car the Irishman is standing beside. It's the type of car you could only dream of owning; a top-of-the-range masterpiece.

"Ere, how can you afford that?" you ask, dumbfounded, "you only work in a pub."

The man's face twists in amusement at your apparent lack of tact. You've never been good at censoring yourself and you blame it on your upbringing. You were raised in a bad neighbourhood and tact is something you were never taught, nor is it something that was respected where you grew up. When you were growing up, you were taught to say what you meant or else people would think you were weak and walk over you.

"I have my ways," he replies, "now get in."

You slowly make your way around the car, admiring the shiny, black body as you go. You open the door and step in. You notice that the insides smell of clean leather and aftershave. You run your hands up and down the red, leather seats and marvel at the amount of buttons and gadgets on the dashboard.

"You like?" he smirks, amused by your awe.

"I'd be crazy not to," you reply.

"Got that right."

With that, Brendan puts the key in the ignition and starts the engine. The car rips into an all-mighty roar and you can't help but be taken aback by the power of it. Once again you wonder how a man who works in a pub can afford this, but you don't question it. Brendan pulls out of his parking space, barely looking both ways, then begins to travel along the road. As you reach the end of the lane, you immediately realize something is wrong when the Irish man takes a sharp left instead of travelling straight ahead. At first you think it must be a short-cut, perhaps one you don't know, but as you continue to travel further from the town you become less convinced.

"Hey," you speak up, puzzled, "where are we going? This isn't the way to the hotel."

You look to the dark-haired man, who is lazily leaning back in his seat with one hand on the wheel and the other resting along the edge of his open window. You feel a swell of annoyance rise in your chest as the man continues to drive, barely listening as you continue to question his navigational skills. After a moment, he turns to you and says,

"I'm bored," the retort is simple and forthright, "you want to do some sight-seeing?"

The phrase 'sight-seeing' is something you could never imagine this man saying in a serious manner. You pause for a moment, stunned by the question, but when you realize he's not kidding you can't help but roll your eyes.

"Not really," you respond, bluntly, "I thought you were going to take me home?"

"What? You don't want to see the sights of Ireland?" he responds, peering at you from the corner of his eye, "must get boring, being locked up in that hotel room all day."

Although the statement seems harmless, you can't help but feel like he's having some sort of joke at your expense. You turn your head to face the man and sure enough he is smirking to himself.

"I don't _just_ stay in me hotel, ya know?" you huff, face contorting into an angry pout, "besides, I'm not here to sight-see, right. I'm here to work!"

"Loosen up, Steven," he glances at you, "I bet you've never done one spontaneous thing in your whole life."

"Yes I have!" you sneer, words like venom from your mouth.

"Name the last time you did something that hadn't been planned in advance," he asks.

You pause for a moment, eager to prove him wrong. You think about all the things you've done, all the spontaneous and wild things... but you're crest-fallen when you realize that you can't think of anything. You wait for the man to rub the victory in your face, but he says nothing. Instead, neither of you say a word while the hum of the car fills the silence.

Xoxoxo

As Brendan drives, you begin to notice that every time you look out the window you are getting higher and higher. He's driven you both out into the middle of the country and you watch wordlessly as the car hurdles past a plethora of fields and hilly terrain. You feel yourself ascending even higher, until eventually you realize that he's driven you to some sort of mountainous area. The car chortles over the rough ground as Brendan slowly makes his way up a roughly laid path. Eventually, when you feel like this journey is going to go on forever, the car stops.

You look out the window and all you can see are green hills and fields. In the distance you can see a herd of cattle chewing on the ripe grass, while the sun paints the sky the colour of rose behind them. You wonder where on Earth he has taken you and for a moment you wonder if you might be in danger. However you can't bring yourself to feel worried. Despite Doug and Vinnie's words of warning about the Irishman, you can't bring yourself to feel scared of him.

Brendan steps out of the car and so do you. You watch as the dark-haired man slowly walks up a shallow incline towards the top of a hill. You try to see what's beyond the incline, but large pieces of rock and grass mounds stand in your way. Reluctantly, you follow the Irish man.

When you find him, he is standing against a huge boulder that has been planted in the grass. You struggle to find your footing as you climb up the slope, but eventually you reach the Irishman. You walk up to him in confusion as his eyes remain distant, and it's only when you look out towards the horizon that you realize you're overlooking the city. You peer out in awe at the wide stretch of land before you, watching the lights in the distance as they dance and flicker under the dimness of the blue, evening sky.

You walk over to Brendan and lean with him against the rock. The edges are sharp and incessant against your back, so you're forced to shuffle closer to get comfortable. You can feel his arm against yours under your jacket.

"Where is this place?" you ask.

"Not far from the city," he replies, simply. You can't help but scrunch up your nose at the answer. It felt like a long drive to you, "when I was a teenager, me and my mates would come up here to drink."

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, then look back out at the scenery. The cold, evening breeze makes the hairs on your skin stand on end. The smell of grass in the fields reminds you of Summer, even in the dead of Winter.

"Why did you want to come here?" you ask.

"I told you," the man says, turning his head towards you, "I was bored."

You find it hard to believe that the man would come here just because he's bored, but you say nothing. Finally, as if sensing this is not enough, he continues;

"When I first learnt how to drive, I'd come up here when I was feeling stressed," he says, voice casual despite the sentimental nature of the topic, "to get away, you know?"

You nod, knowing all too well. Still, you can't stop one nagging question at the back of your mind from pouring out;

"Why did you bring me?" you ask, turning to face the man.

You both stare at each other, eyes unmoving, until Brendan finally diverts his attention back towards the skyline.

"Don't know," you feel his shoulders shrug beside you, "thought you seemed stressed."

With that, you both fall into silence. As you sit on the rock, Vinnie's words begin to rotate in your head once more, like a broken record. You glance at the man beside you, who seems lost in thought, and you can't help but be sure that he's of no danger to you. So why were both Doug and Vinnie warning you to be careful of him? It makes no sense to you.

"That guy Vinnie..." you break the silence, then pause.

You wonder if it's a good idea to bring this up, but realize it's too late when the man beside you turns at the mention of the blonde's name. You look up at him with wide eyes and continue,

"I ran into him yesterday in the pub...while I was in the bathroom."

You gauge the man's reaction as you speak and suddenly you notice the tense firmness in his jaw. It's the only give away of his rising irritation, as his eyes seem like the picture of aloofness.

"And?" he asks, breathing heavily through his nostrils.

"He told me..." with each word you grow more unsure, but you feel like you have to say it, "he told me you're bad news."

You watch as his eyes narrow and scan your face, hanging on each word like it's vital information.

"...that I should stay away," you continue, "he said he was your ex."

You hear him exhale and suddenly he pushes himself from the rock and slides his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Vinnie, Vinnie, _Vinnie,"_ he huffs, breathing harsh and ragged.

The anger in his voice causes you to momentarily panic. You can feel your heartbeat increase in your chest and a fine sweat form on your brow. After a moment you can see the Irishman begin to calm down. You watch, hypnotized, as he slowly takes control of his body again- back straightening, head high and face the picture of composed.

"Sorry," he mutters, so low you can barely hear, "he just...he's a lying bastard."

You furrow your brow and stare at the ground, trying to figure out this increasingly confusing situation.

"I don't get it," you shake your head, "why would he lie?"

The man seems calmer now and he looks at you intently as you stare up into his eyes. You see his shoulders rise and fall in a brief shrug, while his eyes quickly move from yours towards the ground, then back up again. He looks like he's searching for something, anything. Answers.

"I don't know," he replies, cocking his head as his eyes dance over you.

"You must have some clue," you look at him defiantly, not accepting his response.

"I don't know," he let's out a weary, frustrated sigh. Finally, he looks up at you and says, "...jealousy."

You glance over at him and find that his attention has shifted towards the skyline again.

"Why would he be jealous?" you ask, confused.

The man peers back at you, expression stiff.

"No idea," he replies.

The comment hangs in the air like a thick, heavy fog.

"How about the guy in the deli?" you continue, trying to make sense of everything, "Doug..."

"What about him?" he snorts, as if the name is distasteful to him.

"He said you were bad news too," you explain.

You watch the man's shoulders hitch as he lets out a low, amused grunt.

"_Douglas_," he mutters, hissing out the word, "well he would say that, wouldn't he?"

"Why?" you ask, puzzled.

"Well, far be it for me to pass judgement on anyone," he begins, sardonically, "but it's not exactly _uncommon_ for the 'new squeeze' to have a problem with the ex, now is it?"

He glances back at you with a raised eyebrow and suddenly you feel the pieces all coming together. Your lips part and your eyes widen,

"You mean-"

"Yeah," he nods, reading your mind, "Doug's gay, Vinnie's gay, I'm gay...everyone's gay!"

"Wow," you reply, shocked, "so Doug and Vinnie are a couple, then?"

"Yeah," Brendan mutters.

"So why does Vinnie keep bugging you?" you ask, irritation gnawing at your stomach as you think of the blonde's face.

"I don't know," he shrugs, then breaks out into a smirk, "guess I'm just hard to get over."

"Huh," you let out a grunt of laughter, "flatter yourself."

"Not flattery if it's true," he retorts.

You look up at him from your position on the boulder. You take in his long, built frame as he turns and looks down at the drop below. You push yourself up and walk towards him, until you are both standing on the cliff's edge. You stand in silence as the wind whistles through the air. The sky is becoming darker and you know you'll need to leave soon, before it becomes too dark to see.

"Don't believe everything you hear, Steven," Brendan says, with a look in his eyes that tells you he is being serious, "I'm not going to stand here and say I've been a Saint. God knows I haven't been. I've done things in the past I'm not proud of..." His words linger in the air. You listen with held breath, "...but the past is the past. It can't be changed."

You turn towards him and look at his profile as he stares out towards the city. The lights now seem like tiny fireflies dancing below.

"You telling me you've never done anything you're not proud of?" he asks.

Immediately, without a second-thought, you think of Amy. You say nothing.

You both stand in silence for a few minutes before Brendan finally clears his throat and turns away.

"I guess we should head back, then," he mumbles, "yeah?"

"Yeah," you nod, "sure."

You both turn and make your way back to the car. While the Irishman drives you home, you both sit in silence; the radio crackling in the background as you slowly head back towards the city lights.


	8. Chapter 8

_Thank you all for the reviews, I appreciate them so much. Some of you have expressed confusion over the Vinnie/Doug stuff and whether there's more to it. There is, but that's all I'm divulging. Having said that, I'm posting chapter 8 today then chapter 9 on Sunday before I go back to Uni. Enjoy and thank you for following the story. X _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 8**

You arrive home from work in the evening, just as the sun is starting to set in the sky. You slip off your coat and lazily throw it onto the bed, along with your jacket and shirt. You look into the mirror and see the bags under your eyes, dark and ugly, and lazily you press a finger to them to try and push them away. When you realize your attempts are in vain, you throw your body back onto the bed and press your head down, deep into the pillow. It doesn't take long for your own tiredness to catch up with you and before you know it you are encompassed by sleep.

You are suddenly awoken by the familiar sound of your phone vibrating in your pocket. You roll over and moan as you reach into your trousers and pull out your mobile. With low-lidded eyes you glance at the screen and find that you don't recognise the number. You furrow your eyebrows and sit up, clothes wrinkled with sleep. You reluctantly answer.

"Hello?" you say, voice thick and groggy, "who is this?"

"Steven," you hear a voice on the other end, "it's Brendan. Are ye busy?"

The man on the phone sounds flustered, voice heavy and harsh as he speaks to you. In the background you can hear the sound of a crowd of voices, shouting and chatting. You squint your eyes in confusion, wondering how the Irishman managed to contact you; you didn't give him your number.

"Uhm, not really," you mumble, irritated that he woke you up for idle chit-chat, "I _was_ sleeping, but not anymore."

"Great, so you're not busy," he replies, voice showing no hint of humour, "I need a favour."

"Ere, how did you get this number?" you ask, nose scrunched up in annoyance and accusation, "I never gave you my number."

"Remember you left your jacket here?" he replies, simply.

Your mouth drops open as you slowly piece it together.

"You looked through my pockets?" you hiss, "you looked through my _phone?"_

You feel like your privacy has been violated. You quickly step off the bed, body charged with fury, and you can honestly say you've never felt more like punching someone as you do this man.

"Thought it would come in handy," he replies, voice dripping with amusement, "and I was right."

"Who do you think you are?" you're close to shouting, "that's my personal property, that!"

"Shouldn't leave stuff lying around then," he says, "anyone could just pick it up."

You bite your lip, afraid of speaking in case you simply scream at him. You walk over to the window and look across the street, unable to help yourself thinking about killing him. You exhale a breath, trying to calm yourself, and say,

"What do you want, Brendan?"

You're proud of yourself for remaining calm, even though your fury makes you want to break something.

"Like I said, I need a favour," he says, and you can hear him turn away to shout at someone to _pipe down,_ "could you maybe come over to the bar?"

You close your eyes, jaw tense, and you wonder what on earth could be so important that he needs to see you in person. You're fingers start to twitch and you shove your hands in your pockets so you don't have to look at them. You scuff the ground with your foot and sigh,

"Can't you just tell me what it is you want?" you ask.

"Better in person," he replies, casually, "see you in ten."

With that, the man hangs up the phone, leaving you feeling deflated and more tired than ever.

You arrive at the bar within ten minutes, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. When you arrive, you can barely fit through the front door because so many patrons are there. You find yourself squeezing past hundreds of tightly packed bodies, young and old, all smelling of beer and bar-nuts. You sigh and groan as elbows and arms hit you on the way past, causing you to wince as they nudge against your raw wounds. You still haven't recovered from the mugging. Finally, after what feels like hours, you reach the bar.

Brendan is standing behind the bar, swamped with customers. The man can barely stop as each punter dives to the counter, looking for another drink. All around you you can hear men yelling and laughing, and you find yourself feeling like you're going to be carried away in a tidal wave of testosterone. You watch as Brendan's brow begins to form a fine sweat as he quickly and expertly pours drinks left, right and centre.

Finally, the Irishman spots you and you swear you can see relief flash over his face. Brendan walks over to the side of the bar where you are standing, then motions for you to come to the other side. You look at him in confusion, but he insists, so slowly you duck under the small barrier that divides the bar from the customers.

"Hey," you say, baffled.

"Hey, thanks for coming," he replies, distractedly.

"Yeah, yeah, what do you want?" you ask, wanting to get this over with.

"You ever worked in a bar before?" he raises his eyebrow, turning his face away to carefully watch as the customers pile up, "Like in college or something?"

"No," you shake your head, "never."

"What?" the dark-haired man looks shocked; appalled, even, "not even in _college?"_

"...nope," you shake your head, emphasizing the word with a bite.

The man pauses for a while, sizing you up and down. Finally he shakes his head, looks back to the sea of customers waiting to be served, then says,

"It's fine, it doesn't matter if you have," he looks you in the eye, "you look like a natural."

With that, the man puts a hand behind your back and leads you to the centre of the bar. You look at him like he's just grown another head, then you look out in terror at the people waiting to be served. They've already started being aggressive, telling you to _get a move on_ as each one tries to get their order in first. You turn to the man behind you and angrily say,

"Are you kidding me?"

Brendan leans into you and lowly says,

"I don't _kid_."

"But I don't know anything about serving drinks!" you protest, "I told you I've never worked in a bar."

"And I said it doesn't matter," he emphasizes, ignoring you as he begins to take orders from the customers.

"Well, where is your Dad and your Sister?" you ask, still shocked that you've been put in this position.

"Gone," he replies, rushing back and forth to fetch drinks, "I said I'd work alone tonight, they're busy."

You jump as a man in front of you starts mouthing off, demanding you get him a scotch with ice. You timidly look around for the scotch and grab a glass from below the bar, then you pour the liquor into the glass. You hand the man his drink and he thanklessly hobbles off to a corner of the bar. You look at Brendan, who is staring at you with a smirk,

"See," he shrugs, "not hard at all."

You puff out a breath of air as you continue to take drinks, all of which are relatively straight forward. You only require minor guidance from Brendan and he tells you _you're a natural _once again.

"Don't you have any friends who could have done this for you?" you ask, still bitter, "why did you ask me, of all people?"

Brendan grabs a glass and pours a Vodka and Tonic for a middle-aged, dark-haired man. He doesn't look at you when he replies,

"Why would I ask a friend to do something like this?" he gives the drink to the man and takes his money, slipping it into the till. He continues, "besides, you owe me."

You glance at him in annoyance,

"For what?" you bark.

He turns and leans his arm on the bar beside you. He's close. Not close enough for it to be obvious, but close enough for you to notice. You feel your hairs stand on end.

"For saving your life the other day," he replies, "consider this me calling in my 'payback' card."

With that, the man saunters off to the side of the bar to try and tackle the growing customers. You stand still in the middle, stunned, then jump back into motion when a woman in front of you asks for a Gin and cranberry. You smile at her while she bats her eyelids, and you feel your cheeks redden when she tells you you're _adorable._ She asks if you work there permanently and you tell her you're 'temporary staff.' You can't help but think of that as an understatement. She pouts, _that's a shame _and begins to sit on a bar stool to talk more to you. Suddenly, you feel yourself being nudged out of the way as a dark-haired Irish man steps in front of you and stares the woman straight in the eye.

"You can't sit there," he says, curtly.

The woman seems stunned as she stares at Brendan. You look at the girl, whose eyes are wide and blue as she glances back at you. She flicks her blonde hair back, trying to maintain whatever dignity she has been left with,

"Why not?" she asks, brow furrowed in annoyance.

"Too busy," he replies, voice stoic and emotionless, "you'll get in the way."

The woman's mouth drops open and she looks over to the end of the bar, where a man is sitting perched on a bar stool, sipping his black ale.

"That guy's allowed to sit here," she huffs, eyes dark with fury, "why can't I?"

Brendan's eyes move slowly to the side of the bar until he spots the man she's referring to. The Irish man leans over, arm on the counter, and shouts,

"Hey you!"

The man turns his head, confused, and points to himself for clarification.

"Yeah, you," Brendan says, "move it. You can't sit there."

The man lowers his eyebrows, then slowly removes himself from the chair and evaporates into the crowd. Brendan turns to the woman, neck twisting tensely as he stares at her. Her mouth is set in a pout of anger and she glances at you, as if waiting for you to protest. You look at Brendan, who is still staring at her, and you shrug. What can you do?

"Fine," she grabs her drink and downs it, "I won't be coming here again."

She storms off, blonde hair swinging as her tight dress clings to her body on the way out. Brendan looks at her, eyes dark as he says,

"Bye bye."

You stare at him, open-mouthed, but he doesn't even give you a second glance as he brushes past you to serve more customers.

Xoxoxox

The night is over in a blur of sweaty bodies and red, apple-flushed faces. As the last customer exits the building, you feel a wash of relief flood over you at the thought that you won't have to do the Irishman anymore favours. You wonder how you got roped into this in the first place.

Slowly you walk over to an empty stool and sit on it, leaning your body on the counter as your eyes slowly shut. You feel exhausted as the effort of the night washes over you, overpowering and crippling. You feel a hand on your back,

"Don't get too comfortable," a thick, Irish drawl sounds in your ear, "night's not over yet."

You look up through bleary eyes as the man throws down a cloth on the counter beside you. You let out a moan as you let your head fall down to rest on your forearms again. You hear the man laugh at the extent of the misery he's putting you through. Moments later, you find the will to pull your head up. You catch sight of the dark-haired man behind the counter, wiping down the shelves where alcohol has spilt. Slowly, he reaches up and you catch a glimpse of the pale skin underneath his black jumper as it rides up on his torso. Your mouth feels dry and you swallow the lump in your throat. Quickly, you glance away and pull yourself from the stool, grabbing the cloth in your hand. You make your way over to one of the wooden booths and start wiping.

After half an hour of cleaning you feel like you're going to fall asleep. It's almost one o'clock in the morning and you can't help but realize that you have to get up for work in six hours. You look over at the Irishman, who is still cleaning tables, and you sigh as you realize you don't have much longer to clean. You walk over to the last table and begin to wipe it down. Suddenly, you feel something brush against your back. You pause, feeling your heart skip a beat, and your face turns red when you realize that Brendan is behind you. You pull back suddenly, one hand on the cloth on the table, while your back remains slightly arched. You can feel the man's chest close to your back as you stand, paralysed, waiting for him to move.

Slowly, the man moves forward until he is right against you and you wonder if this is reality at all. Surely this couldn't be what you think it is? Your heart beats rapidly as you feel his arm slowly reach around you, brushing against your side. You can feel his breath on the back of your neck. Slowly, cautiously, you turn your head around to look at him. His face is close to yours -too close- and his breath makes the skin on your neck tingle as he glances from the table to you. You swallow, suddenly terrified that your face is giving your thoughts away. Your lips are parted as you look from his eyes to his mouth. You're powerless to stop yourself. You're not breathing; afraid to make any sound whatsoever. Afraid that the rhythm of your breaths will make it obvious.

You feel yourself lean in and everything in your body aches to be close to him. You've never felt like this before, like a magnetic pull is forcing you towards someone, and the feeling makes the blood run cold under your skin. You lick your lips to wet them, anticipating something you swore to yourself you didn't want, then you look up into his eyes. Your breathing is shallow. Something about being this close makes you lose control. Your hand is resting slackly on the table, damp cloth rendered useless under your fingers, and you can feel the nerves in your body twitch in expectation.

You lean in a little closer, unsure of what you're doing, when all of a sudden the man's eyes glance away and you watch as he reaches over and pulls an empty pint glass towards him across the table. You jump back, surprised by the unexpected action, and watch with glazed eyes as the man holds up an empty, lipstick stained glass in his hand.

The moment must have only lasted a second, but to you it felt like a dragged-out eternity.

"Sorry," he says, casually, "needed to get this glass."

You watch in stunned silence as the man carries the glass towards the bar and pushes it into the dishwasher. You look away, face flushed, and you mentally attack yourself for being so utterly stupid. _You fucking idiot_, you think, _what were you thinking?_ You tell yourself it was a misjudged moment. Something made you lose control and you're not sure what it was, but you swear to yourself it will not happen again.

You finish wiping down the table, your hands feeling like wet clay as your movements become slow and distracted. You walk over to the bar when you're done, watching the Irishman's back as he piles up the last of the washed glasses.

"Done," you sigh, exhausted, "is that all? Can I go home now?"

Brendan slowly turns around and presses his hands back, until he's resting his body against the counter, legs crossed in front of him.

"One more thing," he says, "just need to re-stock some of the bottles before the morning. Some shelves are low."

The man cocks his head to the side, then motions in the direction of a door around the side of the bar.

"Cellar's that way," he nods, "hop to it."

You glare at him, a low growl of irritation forming in your stomach. You feel like protesting, but suddenly you get flashes of being pummelled by two thugs in the street and you bite your tongue. You slowly make your way through the door and down into the cellar.

The basement is relatively cool when you walk in and you can feel the skin start to goose-flesh on your bared arms. You walk down the stairs and almost trip as the single, dim light above casts shadows against the crates and bottles. You tentatively walk over to the first crate you see, which seems to be full of ciders. You grab it and turn to walk back up the stairs, but immediately stop when you look up to see a tall, dark-haired man standing in the way. Your eyes are wide as you look at him, startled, and you feel your mouth drop open.

"Brendan," you mumble, "didn't hear you come down here."

The man is silent as he looks at you, the shadows of the room darkening his eyes. You feel your heart race at the way he looks at you, like a hungry lion ready to attack its prey. You lick your lips and look from the crate in your hands to the door at the top of the stairs. You wonder how much time it would take you to reach the top of the staircase if you dropped the crate and ran. You wonder if your legs could move that fast, or if they could even move at all. You're rooted to the spot.

Slowly the man begins to walk towards you, his steps slow and deliberate. You step back, trying to avoid him and in your chest you feel your heart swell in fear. Something about the way he stands, dominating the light in the room until all you can feel and see is darkness. You're scared...

He's so close to you now that all that separates you is the crate held tight in your arms. He's walked you right back until you're up against a wall and suddenly you realize there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide...you're trapped. You look away from him, lip trembling, you're not sure what to expect. You feel his breath on your face and you can hear his breath in your ears. Although your skin is red with terror, there's also something else you feel...you can't pinpoint it, but it makes something stir in your stomach. Finally, you feel the man's hands brush over yours as he takes the crate from you and sets it aside.

You look up at him, throat tight and eyes wide as he leans into you. His chest is against yours and you can feel the taut muscles underneath his shirt. His eyes are dark and glittering, like they've sucked up the light and are emanating it back at you. You feel a deep thud in your chest as your eyes fix on his and suddenly you get a strong sense of Deja vu. The feeling is so strong it almost takes your breath away.

That's when he leans in and presses his lips to yours.

His mouth feels soft and tender and right against yours. You close your eyes and you feel your body deflate, as if all the air has left your lungs at once. Everything in you wants to absorb this moment...but your mind won't let you. Your eyes snap open and suddenly you can feel yourself protesting.

"Don't," you mumble, eyes frantically searching his, "please don't-"

He cuts you off as his mouth seals on yours and once again the air rushes from your lungs in a wave. His lips taste familiar and something in you craves for them; an insatiable hunger that you've never been able to quench before. He presses his hand to your hip, his fingers splaying slightly underneath your t-shirt until your skin burns. Once again you feel your body reacting, a strong instinctual urge to surrender to him.

"Stop," you hiss, breathless, "stop it-"

His lips crush against yours, stopping the words as his hand moves further under your clothes, refusing to listen to you because he knows you better than you know yourself. You don't know how he knows, don't know how he can read the parts of your mind that even you can't, but he can. You feel your heart hammering and you're sure he can feel it too. You feel his moustache against your lips, his teeth biting down softly, and when you feel his hand spread on the skin of your torso you reach down and clamp your fingers on it; trying to stop the movement. You look up into his eyes, breathing heavy as you glance at his lips. Your forehead rests on his.

"You want me to stop?" he mutters, voice like poisonous honey in your ear.

Your eyes dance over his face and you try to will yourself to leave. You swallow the fear in your throat and urge yourself to protest; to push him off and demand he leave you alone. You want to cut him down and make it clear that this could not be further from what you want. Most of all, you want to believe it.

Quickly, before you can stop yourself, you lean up and press your lips to his and feel the warmth of his mouth against yours. In that moment, you feel your whole body melt against him, relenting, surrendering to what you know you shouldn't surrender to. You can hear him sigh and slowly you feel his tongue against your bottom lip, warm and wet and craving for access to your mouth. You open for him, letting him push his tongue through your parted lips, while you eagerly reach up with one hand and let your fingers glide through his hair.

Your other hand, which is still clamped to Brendan's, slowly guides the Irishman's palm up the contours of your body to your chest. You can feel him press against you, body taut and firm, eager to be closer to you. As he does, your fingers twist and pull at his hair and you know it must be painful for him, but he doesn't make a sound to imply it. You pull harder, eyes clenched shut as your lips move over his desperately, tasting the inside of his mouth eagerly. You can't seem to get enough, and the thought makes you dig your nails into his scalp. You want to hurt him. You want to punish him for making you want this...but he doesn't make a sound. All you can hear are your own soft moans as his fingers slide down your bare sides and around to your back, digging hungrily into the flesh.

Finally you break apart. You can hear his uneven breaths in your ear and you can feel his body, warm and solid around you. You're suddenly aware that your hands are knotted in his hair, pulling him close. You look up into his eyes, which are hooded with lust and after a moment you become achingly aware of his hands...which seem to be moving down your body towards the waistband of your jeans.

Now you're overcome with terror. Your eyes are wide and panic overtakes you as you realize the extent of what you've just done with this man. Without thinking, you pull your hands from his hair and press them to his chest, pushing him fiercely out of the way with all your might. You see his eyes widen as he stares at you, dumbfounded. You look at his face; his lips are swollen and red from kissing you and his hair is tousled from where your fingers have laced into the strands.

You have no time to think, so you run. He immediately steps out of your way, as if expecting it, and he doesn't follow you as you hastily run up the stairs of the cellar and back to your hotel.


	9. Chapter 9

_The response to the last chapter was truly amazing. You guys are flippin' awesome! Also, to the reviewer who recommended this on Tumblr, thank you so much. I can't believe the response this is getting. As you know I'm back to University tomorrow, which means updates will be less regular because my dissertation is due in about 3 weeks. I'll try to post something in that time, but can't give any estimate on when that will be. Having said that, as promised, here is Chapter 9. _

**In Another Life **

**Chapter 9**

It takes you forever to get to sleep that night. All you can feel on your skin are his fingers and all you can see in your mind's eye is him; his face, his eyes and his God-damn irritating smile. You only manage to sleep when you finally decide that you can take the torture no more. You reach over into your bedside cabinet and fish out a packet of sleeping tablets, popping two with a chug of water and eventually drifting off to sleep. Your eyelids flutter in resistance until the last moment.

Once again, like always, you dream.

However, the dream you're having tonight is not the same as all the others. There is no balcony, no SWAT team and no screaming. Instead, you find yourself standing in the middle of a living room. You have no idea where this living room is and it holds no resemblance to anywhere in your waking life, yet in the dream you know that this living room is your home. You're busying yourself by tidying up the toys of young children and as you sweep through the room, you find yourself plumping pillows and swiping dirt away from the couch cushions. You feel content.

When you're done fixing up the living room -your living room- you brush the dust off your tracksuit bottoms and put the toys away into a chest at the side of the room. You turn around and find yourself looking into an adjoining kitchen, where sunlight is pouring through a lace-veiled curtain and onto the kitchen tiles. However you're not concerned with any of that, because all you can see is the man standing in the middle of it, in front of the sink. This dark-haired stranger is gazing out through the window, as if in a daze, and his back is turned to you while his hands lazily pull dishes from the foamy water. You find yourself smiling at the man, who is tall and strongly built, and as you do there's a warmth in your chest. An all-encompassing warmth that runs to the very marrow of your bones.

You walk over to the man and wrap your arms around his waist, burying your nose into the fabric of his shirt and inhaling. He smells familiar.

You feel a warm, wet hand clasp your forearm as his index finger lazily strokes the skin.

_'Turn around_,' you say, smiling into his back.

The man wordlessly turns and wraps you in his arms. You close your eyes and absorb the moment, blissfully. You feel his lips on your hair and everything in the moment feels right. You feel happy. Happier than you've ever felt before.

Just as you're about to pull back and look into the man's eyes...you wake up.

Your eyes slowly open and you peer up at the warm light shining through your window. You pull yourself from the pillow and rub your eyes, sitting up in the bed. You give yourself a moment to wake up, scratching your head and checking the clock on the bedside cabinet. Five minutes before your alarm is supposed to go off. Like clockwork.

You think about the dream you had and immediately your body freezes. It was nothing like your usual dream; there was no fear or heartache. For once, your pillows are dry. However, the uneasy feeling in your stomach remains. You remember the warmth in your stomach as you held onto the man and immediately you know that it was the same man...the man you grieved over on the balcony. Except in this dream, he was alive and well and in _your _house...a house you've never seen before in your life. It was certainly nothing like the house you shared with Amy, nor any other home you've ever known or been in. You try to tell yourself it was just a dream, but it was so vivid and real and _persistent_ that you can't help but think about it. How is it possible for something to seem so real, yet simply be an illusion?

It felt more like a memory.

The more you think about the dream, the more your heartbeat thumps inside your chest. You don't know why it's scared you so much, but it's all you can think about. Then, suddenly, you remember the night before. Your arms wrapped around the Irishman in the pub, hands in his hair, mouth covering his like you were inhaling the oxygen from his lungs. Like he was the only thing keeping you alive. You tell yourself that's why the dream must have been different last night, because you'd been with him...because you'd given into a desire you swore to yourself you would never give in to. You shake your head and feel your mood plummet, your stomach churning at the thought of the kiss. How could you have been so thoughtless?

You hear your phone vibrate beside you and you reach over to get it. You look at the screen and the name on it does nothing to improve your mood. _Amy. _Suddenly the full impact of last night comes crashing down on you. You think of Pauline and Amy, your life back in England, and suddenly you feel like you want to be sick. Your eyes flicker over the screen in panic, and when you can't take it anymore you drop the phone on the covers of the bed and put your head in your hands. You try not to think about any of it -the kiss, Amy, Pauline- but the harder you try the more persistent they become. Roving images that won't leave you alone. One thought pervades your mind above the rest, and it's the one that makes you the most uneasy. You feel the walls closing in.

You pull yourself from the bed and walk over to the mini-bar. You reach for a small bottle of gin, unscrewing the cap to take a swig of the liquid. You feel it trickle down your throat, warm and easy and dulling your senses. It's early, too early to be drinking, but you need something to stop you from thinking. You grab your phone and call in sick to work, because you can't deal with it today. You can't be bothered. You need today to think -or stop thinking- and part of you just doesn't care anymore. You feel like your life is falling down around you and you can't stop to pick up the pieces.

You sit down on the bed and continue to take swigs of alcohol from the bottle. You've been drowning your sorrows more-so than usual this week and you're very aware of it, but you don't care. You can't bring yourself to, not when there's so much else going on in your life. No matter how hard you try not to think about the night before, images of the Irishman pervade your mind. You feel like he's infested you; crept under your skin like a virus and now you can't get rid of him. You hear his words in your head, his lips on yours, everything about him intoxicates you and you barely even know where these feelings have come from. You're sure they weren't always there -seem to have come from nowhere- but nevertheless they are crippling. What scares you the most is how much you _wanted_ _it_. Oh God, you wanted it.

You spend the day in your room, drinking bottle after bottle of alcohol and destroying everything as you stumble and smash your way through the confined area. Each bottle you drink another attempt to drown out your thoughts. Eventually, when you pass the line of no return, you fall down on your bed and watch through glazed eyes as the room spins around you. You can hear the mumble of television as it churns out a new hit song and you despondently realize that you've turned on a music channel. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you're also aware that your phone has been ringing repeatedly for the past hour and you don't have to look at it to know it's Amy. You can't bring yourself to speak to her, not in the state you're in now and not after last night, so you let it ring on until it eventually stops.

As the evening sky begins to darken your window, you're more intoxicated than ever. You walk around your room, bumping into your wardrobe and falling over obstacles that aren't even in your way. Your bed hasn't been made and your clothes are wrinkled and stained, barely standing a chance against your chaotic behaviour. You hear a persistent ringing sounding from somewhere in the room and you freeze, aware that it is not the sound of your mobile. You finally recognize it as the phone in your hotel room, which is positioned on a far wall near the front door.

With bleary eyes you hobble over to the phone and pick it up, arm leaning against the cream-papered wall for support as your legs threaten to buckle beneath you. Your breaths are harsh and laboured on the phone, making you sound like a man possessed.

"Hello, Mr. Hay?" a lady asks, voice chirpy and sweet.

"Hiyur!" you mumble, Manchester accent thick as you drunkenly slur the word.

There's a momentary pause on the phone and, even in your drunken state, you can tell that this woman knows you're absolutely off your face. You clear your throat, trying in vain to cough away some of the alcohol, but your attempt is useless.

"Mr. Hay, there's someone at reception asking to see you," the lady continues, hesitantly.

"Who?" you screw up your face and lean your cheek on the wall, "ask who."

You hear the woman take the phone from her ear, followed by an inaudible mumble as she asks the stranger to provide a name. You hear a crackle on the other end as the woman comes back on and says,

"The name is Brendan Brady, sir," she says, "should I send him-"

"Listen you!" you snap, belly on fire with the sound of the man's name, "don't you let him up here, right?"

You're aware of how drunk you sound, but the intensity of your words leave no room for question. Your eyebrows are knotted as you imagine Brendan in the lobby, a mere few floors below you, wanting to see you. Your heart hammers in your chest, sending a fresh wave of alcohol through your veins. You're breathing hard into the phone, and you can't tell if it's because of the booze or the thought of him.

"Mr. Hay," her voice is calm and reasoning, "I think it might be best if you let someone come see you."

She's trying to preach to you, get under your skin, but you're having none of it. You point your finger at the phone menacingly, as if she can see you, and you say,

"I dun' want to see _him..._ got it?"

You have to make her understand that it's imperative you don't see this man. That seeing him would be the worst thing in the World right now. You can't have him anywhere near you, you can't bear to have him anywhere near you...especially not in your room.

"OK, Mr. Hay," she replies, reluctantly, "if you're sure."

"I am," you sigh in relief, and it's the only two words you've said that have sounded sober, "I am."

You hear the click of the receiver as the receptionist hangs up. The breath flows from your lungs in a rush and you let your body fall back to rest against the wall of your room. You slide down the wall and wrap your arms around your legs, which are pulled into your torso. The alcohol makes your whole body buzz, but your mind still feels too alert. Too aware. Too many thoughts. You weakly pull yourself up, but as you walk you can feel them start to give way underneath you and you go flying into the nearby bed. Your body flops down as the sound of the television blares in your ears, churning out some Pop song you've never heard before. You lie there for what seems like hours, until finally you hear a harsh knocking on the door.

Your eyes flick open and you groan as you rise to your feet. You know it's the receptionist coming to check on you after your drunken, aggressive phone call and you feel like you need to answer in case she does something stupid, like phone security to check on you. You look in the mirror and pat yourself down with drunken, clumsy hands. You walk over to the door and open it, expecting to see a young, bubbly lady. Instead, you are greeted by the glaring eyes and down-turned expression of Brendan.

As soon as you see him, your eyes widen and you immediately try to shut the door on him. You push against the door with your whole weight, trying to force it closed as he fights against you. You can feel the force of his hands on the other side as he tries to push open the door, and eventually you feel your body give way as the Irishman lets out a growl and propels himself inside.

You watch as the man stomps angrily in and surveys the chaos of your room, which is practically falling apart at the seams. You follow him, movements sloppy and uncoordinated as you try to push him back out. You grab his arm, but he snatches it away from you and fixes you with a menacing look. His teeth are bared, as if he's furious with you, and the expression ignites a venom in you that you can barely contain.

"Get out of my room, Brendan!" you shout, eyes bulging as you point at the door, "I told them not to let you up!"

"Yeah?" he shouts back, angrier than you've ever seen him, "well I'm glad they weren't idiots and didn't listen to ye!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" you ask, but the slur of your words makes the question seem laughable.

"Look at you," his voice softens as he motions up and down your dishevelled body, "you're a mess. Have you been in here all day drinking?"

You pout and fold your arms, wobbling on your feet as you do. You know he can smell the alcohol on you, but you don't care. You watch as he turns and looks at the empty bottles on your bed.

"How can you even still be standing?" he asks, dumbfounded and irritated, "you've drunk the whole bar."

"Look, it's none of your business what I do, all right?" you sneer.

You shove past the man, making sure any touch is filled with as much aggression as possible, and sit down on the side of your bed. You fold your arms and cross your legs, closing yourself off until you're sure you're not exposed to him in any sort of way. You look to the ground, eyes heavy and lidded, and you feel irritated at the burn of your cheeks as you remember the feeling of his lips on yours.

"Is this because of last night?" he asks, after what feels like an eternity of silence, "is all this because of last night?"

You can hear the words coming from his mouth, but you're powerless to reply as the room continuously spins around you on a loop. You open your mouth, trying to get out the words, but all that emerges is a string of barely coherent gurgles and groans. Your eyes roll back into your head and you feel your body fall back into the bed, as if your bones have evaporated and the only thing left is the skin to hold you together.

As your body sinks into the quilts you are vaguely aware of the sound of the Irishman groaning in your ears. You feel like responding, but the thought is merely fleeting as you find yourself fighting the urge to throw up right there on the bedspread.

"You've got to be kidding me," the man mutters.

Your eyes are closed, but suddenly you feel the weight of him on the bed as his arms come around you and hoist you up into sitting position. Your head sways from side to side and you feel the rim of a glass being pushed through your lips,

"Drink up, there's a good lad," the Irish drawl filters into your ears, invading your senses.

You feel like protesting. Everything in your body wants him away from you and you want to fling his stupid glass of water across the room...but you don't. Instead, you gently put your hand to the glass, fingers brushing against his, and down the whole thing with a greedy thirst.

"Good lad," you hear him whisper, hand rubbing circles in your back, "you're a fucking mess."

When you finish the glass, you feel your body being pulled across the bed until you're lying sprawled on the mattress. The room is still spinning, though your eyes remain closed, and you're vaguely aware of a blanket being thrown over your resting body.

"I feel like your fucking ma'am," the Irishman growls, "I came up here to talk to ya, not play nurse."

"Shut up," you find the energy to mutter, though your lips feel like balloons.

"Nice," he breathes, and you can feel the weight of his body pulling away from the bed after he's done adjusting you.

You feel your breaths becoming slow and steady as you lie, unable to keep yourself from shutting down against the sheer volume of alcohol in your system. Your tongue is tinged with the taste of spirits and your whole body is buzzing as a mixer of tonics soar through your bloodstream. You feel yourself drifting off to sleep and just before you do, you feel the weight of a body lie down next to yours. You know it's him, but you can't bring yourself to mind as you shut down into sleep.

You wake up in the middle of the night with a splitting headache and a dry mouth. The room is dark and through the shadows you can see the dull outline of clothes, debris and carnage as you suddenly remember the chaos you'd caused yesterday. You push a hand to your head and throw your body back into your pillows, trying to remember if you'd brought any aspirin on your trip with you. Whilst lost in thought, you're suddenly aware of a light sound coming from beside you. You turn your head and your eyes immediately widen as they connect with a sleeping Irishman in your bed.

Your heart races and you feel a warm, tingling sensation in your stomach as you look at the man's face. His eyes are closed lightly, as if barely sleeping at all, and his hair shines under the light of the moon falling through your window. Your eyes scan over him and your breath is caught in your throat, as if afraid the noise will wake him. Slowly you pull yourself up, until you're leaning on your elbow, observing the man closely. You mentally berate yourself for allowing this to happen- for allowing him to sleep beside you. You tell yourself you couldn't have stopped him, that you were too drunk, but the excuse seems feeble.

Suddenly, you see the man's body shift as his face contorts into a grimace. His top lip is raised in a sneer as he pushes his strong arm up from under the quilts and gently kicks out his leg. Your breath hitches as you register the distress etched on the man's face, then suddenly you hear a soft moan escape from his lips. He's dreaming. You watch with fascination as Brendan turns his face from side to side, as if trying to wake himself from the nightmare, and you're all too aware of the feeling.

Your heart races as the man's turmoil heightens, until suddenly he's crying out and yelling beside you, indecipherable words that make no sense to you. Before you can stop yourself, you lean over the Irishman and take his body in your arms. You pull him close to your chest, as if trying to squeeze out the fear, and your breathing is ragged as your fingers dig into the flesh on his back. You feel him against you, his large ribcage jutting out as he inhales and exhales sharply. Slowly, gradually, you feel his body relax against you as his breaths soften. You keep your arms fastened around him, your chin resting on his shoulder as your cheek grazes against his.

"It's fine," you whisper, though you know he can't hear you, "it's OK."

You close your eyes and let the steady rhythm of your breaths lull him, then you pull your cheek from his to look at his face. He's still sleeping. You find yourself looking at him for longer than you feel comfortable with, until eventually you pull your arms from him and turn over in the bed. You frown as you lay your head on the pillow, mind racing, and before you go to sleep you tell yourself that you only feel friendship for the man.

In the morning you wake up before him, body entangled in the sheets as you slowly open your eyes and take in a deep breath. Your head is throbbing and you immediately know that you're going to feel like absolute shit when you stand up.

You turn your head on the pillow and look over at the Irishman, who is still in your bed. He's still fully dressed in a dark jumper and jeans, lying on his back like a sleeping grizzly bear. You tear your eyes away and swallow the lump in your throat, then you slowly drag yourself from the bed and pull on your work clothes before slipping out the door. You don't even shower, for fear of waking the sleeping man up. You need to get away, fast, and you have no time to waste getting ready because if you spend another second in your room with that man then you're sure you're going to explode. Your mind can't take it, can't cope with him...can't face up to the reality of what you've done with him.

Xoxox

When you arrive home from work, Brendan is standing outside of 'Fitzcarraldo's' waiting for you. His hands are tucked into his pockets and his expression is downcast as he sees you approaching from afar, eyes fixed upon you in an unfaltering stare. Your eyes widen when you spot him, unable to tear them away, and you feel your heart rate increase as the man slowly pushes himself away from the wall with one foot and approaches you.

You stop in the street before he reaches you, frozen to the spot, while your knuckles turn white as you clutch your briefcase to your chest. Brendan's mouth is set as his eyes scour yours, arms folded over his chest as he fixes you with a thunderous look. You feel like a child that's about to be scolded. The hairs on the back of your neck raise and you feel like it's fight or flight.

"You know," he says, "this whole 'running away' thing you're doin'... it's starting to get old."

His expression is serious as he unfolds his arms and shoves his hands in his pockets, feet rooted confidently to the ground. You wonder how the Irishman manages to remain so poised, even in the face of confrontation. The thought makes your stomach twist with irritation.

"Why the Hell did you stay in my room last night?" you ask, barely able to contain the question.

"Because I didn't want ye throwing up in your own vomit," he bites back, not missing a beat, "I'd say it was a good call."

You're silent. You feel like a nervous wreck, and you know you look like one too. The weight of your encounter in the cellar weighs heavily on your conscience and you know you have to say something. Explain to the man that it meant nothing, that you have a family, that it didn't matter. When you speak, your words are tainted by the quiver in your voice.

"Look Brendan," you say, eyes fixed to the ground, "what happened the other night..."

You pause, waiting for him to intervene, but the silence is deafening even in the middle of the busy Dublin street. The man makes no sound as he waits for you to continue. You don't dare risk looking into his eyes.

"...it were a mistake, yeah?" you finish, weakly.

The silence is deafening and when it becomes too much, you risk looking up at his face. He's staring at you intensely, eyes dark and filled with something you can't quite place. You're not sure if he's angry or if he accepts what your saying; either way he remains silent.

"A mistake?" he repeats, voice low and sceptical.

"Yeah."

"Right..."

He takes in a deep breath and you feel yourself dissolving under the scrutiny of his gaze. You can't tell what he's thinking and you're not sure if you want to.

"Yeah so," you continue, licking your lips, "we should just forget it ever happened, yeah?"

Even as the words leave your mouth, you know the Irishman will not make it that easy. You can sense he's thinking of ways to torture you, even through the very breaths he's breathing.

"Right...OK," he mutters, looking at you with the coldness of steel in his eyes, "so, if it was a 'mistake,' then you won't mind me doing this," the man steps closer, until he's almost pressed against you, "because a 'mistake' would imply you feel nothin'...am I right?"

He raises an eyebrow at you.

You look up into his eyes angrily, brow furrowed and breathing harsh, like you're going to strangle him at any moment. Your skin feels icy cold and chills run up your body, you can practically feel his touch even though no part of him is in contact with you. Your mouth twists and you resent him for playing games with you, when he knows you can't win. When you can't take the pressure anymore, you crack...

"You came on to me, right?" you hiss, voice low so no one else can hear, "I was confused. It meant nothing to me, OK? Nothing."

"You really think _I _came onto _you_?" his voice is low, almost like a threat, and you feel his index finger on your chest in an accusatory point, "you think it was all me? No no no, Steven...it was you. You _wanted_ me to. It was you who was doing the 'coming on,' not me..."

Your mind is bombarded with memories and you search frantically, trying to figure out if he's right or just playing with your head. Was it you? He already has you doubting yourself. You know it was him. You _know _it...don't you?

"Tell me you didn't want me to kiss you," he leans in, mouth practically on the shell of your ear as he steps even closer, "I dare ye."

Your heart is bursting and you feel like all the hairs in your body are standing on end. Your chest feels tight and your breaths are short and uneven as you try to maintain a cool demeanour. Every part of you is hyper-aware, anticipating his touch and feeling chills when it doesn't come. You're close enough to smell him...and the smell is familiar...

"Don't," you finally breathe, and it's enough for him to know he's won.

You hate yourself for being so weak.

He smiles, but it's not friendly; seems to be filled with venom. Like he's given you what you deserve.

"Didn't think so," he snaps.

With that, the man turns and walks back into the bar.


	10. Chapter 10

_Well I've got a free moment and dissertation writing is boring, so I decided to update. As always, thank you for the reviews for chapter 9, I appreciate them so much. Just as a warning, there is no Brendan in this chapter. However, he will appear in Chapter 11. Until then, enjoy! _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 10**

You walk out of your hotel room and pull your jacket tight around you as the cold, crisp December air sends a chill through your bones. With one hand you pull your phone out of your pocket, about to make a call into work, when suddenly you spot a curly mass of blonde hair standing just outside of the 'Fitzcarraldo's pub. You pause and lower your eyebrows as the familiar woman awkwardly bends down to pick up some errand bar-mats from the ground, giant purple heels making the move almost impossible, when suddenly her feet slowly begin to wobble beneath her and she tips over onto the ground in a dramatic display.

You immediately shove your phone into your pocket and walk over to the woman, who you quickly realize is Brendan's sister. When you reach her she has a giant smile on her face, laughing at her own carelessness. You bend over to give her a hand and she takes it eagerly, pulling herself up from the stone pavement and brushing off her tight leggings with both hands. She looks at you and smiles,

"Thanks, love," she brushes back her hair and adjusts her bra, "God, I'm an eejit, aren't I?"

"You all right?" you ask, unable to keep your lips from lifting into a smile as the woman throws back her head in laughter.

"The only thing that's dented is my dignity," she snorts, then slowly wanders over to one of the wooden tables and begins collecting glasses, "I've had worse falls than that on night's out, though, I'll tell you that much!"

You don't doubt it. Brendan's sister seems like she could knock back drinks like they're lemonade.

"Haven't we all," you smile, finding her bubbly charm infectious.

You stand with her for a while, idly making small-talk while you watch here gather glasses. Finally, she turns her head and looks at you with an easy smile,

"Are you here to see Brendan, love?" she asks, continuing to wipe down tables.

You flinch. A paranoid part of your brain wonders if Brendan has told her anything about you both, but you immediately shake the thought from your mind. You're positive that if Brendan had mentioned anything, his sister would not hesitate in bringing your attention to it.

"What? No," you ask, face twisted, "why would I be?"

If she notices your defensiveness, she says nothing. Simply continues with her busy work.

"Because," she continues, "last few times I seen you you were looking for him. Did ya find him?"

You turn your head away, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation. You look longingly down the road in the direction of your office and silently wish you were anywhere but here, having this conversation with the sister of the man who makes you feel like your brain has been pulsed in a blender.

"Yeah," you reply, hesitantly, "I did, thanks."

"Really?" she asks, seemingly surprised, "well aren't you lucky? For me it's like seeing the pope."

She fixes you with a look and suddenly you become uneasy. She smiles at you, and you're not sure if the smile has intent behind it or if your paranoid brain is making assumptions when it shouldn't be. You smile and let out a nervous laugh, then drop the expression as quickly as it came. The blonde carries on with her work, barely paying attention to you, but just as you are about to say your 'farewells' and walk away, she turns to you with one hand on her hip and says,

"Listen love," your heart hammers at the words, "how do you and our Bren' know each other?"

Immediately a flash of fear coils in your stomach. You feel like this trip to Dublin has consisted of nothing more than difficult questions you can't form answers to. You glance at her and find yourself buckling under her intense stare. She seems serious, and part of you wonders where on Earth this line of questioning is going.

"Uh," you fumble for an answer, "w-we met through friends."

You don't know why you lie, but for some reason it feels more safe than telling the truth. You worry about what his Sister might think if you told her you met her brother on a plane to Dublin and haven't been able to stop talking to him since. Something about it sounds too suspect and you worry about what kind of irrational ideas she'd get from that information, so you keep it to yourself.

"Oh," she looks at you and her shoulders drop. She seems disappointed by the answer, so she turns and keeps wiping tables, "that's a shame. I thought you two might have been-"

"Look, I've really got to go now," you interrupt, physically unable to listen.

You try to make a run for it, but she turns and grabs your arm with one manicured hand. She's being very persistent for someone you barely know and it makes you uneasy. You're on edge, terrified about what's going to come out of her mouth next.

"No, wait," she says, frantic, "I just wanted to ask you something."

You search her eyes, trying to figure out the question before she asks it. Everything in your body feels charged, ready to sprint the moment the questions become too much. You realize you're being overly-cautious, that this woman barely knows you, but it makes you uneasy nonetheless. You barely want to think about the man, let alone suffer an inquisition from his Sister about him.

"OK," you swallow, "what?"

"He'd kill me if he thought I was asking this," she seems hesitant for a moment, battling her inner conscience, but eventually she relents, "It's just, Brendan's been in a foul mood recently and I just thought...maybe..." Oh good God, "you might know why."

"Why would I?" you immediately ask, "I barely know him."

She glances at you with a raised eyebrow and you can feel yourself fidgeting. You put your hands in your pockets to remove the temptation and then add,

"Seriously, we've only met a couple of times," you desperately want her to understand that you're of no help to her.

"I know," she replies, nodding her head with a sigh, "but you were looking for him the other day and I thought he might have told you something or..." she stares at you, mouth open as if about to speak, then shakes her head, "Oh, nevermind, love."

She turns and starts to wipe down tables, and just as you turn to leave she once again stops you, standing with one hand on her hip while the other rests on the table.

"It's just," she continues, and you let out a breath of frustration, "ya know, he hasn't been himself lately. He's been acting all moody," she snorts out a laugh, "well, more-so than usual, let's say. It worries me because last time he was like this, he was-"

She stops and looks over at you, as if she's said too much. Finally she moves her hand and tells you _anyway, it doesn't matter_ before waving you goodbye and telling you to '_enjoy work_.' You turn, brow furrowed in confusion, and on your way to your office you wonder what on Earth his Sister was just about to tell you.

Xoxoxo

On the way into work you stop by Doug's deli to pick up a strong, morning coffee. As you walk you try to cast thoughts about the Irishman out of your head, though your encounter the day before still weighs heavily on your mind. Everything about the man just seems toxic, has infected you to the very bone, and once again you tell yourself that you're better off never seeing him again. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

You walk into the deli and the faint aroma of freshly baked bread incenses your nostrils. You breath in and faintly recognise the smell as being sour-dough rolls.

You walk up to the counter and ask Doug for a coffee. The man, well familiar with your routine by now, smiles and goes about making your drink. The smell of the bread is even stronger the closer you are to the till, as the kitchen is right behind it, and every inhale makes your mouth water.

"Is that sour-dough bread you're making?" you ask, unable to stop yourself.

"Hey, good nose," he smiles at you over his shoulder, "you bake?"

"Used to," you shrug, "well, sort of. My Mum worked part-time in a bakery. I used to help out, kept me out of trouble."

"Oh," Doug nods and grins as he turns and hands you a paper cup, "you a trouble-maker then?"

"Used to be," you laugh, "I stopped when I met Amy and got a job with better pay."

"Amy?" Doug asks, raising an eyebrow.

"My wife," you nod and hold up your ring hand, "four years."

"Wow," he seems genuinely shocked, "you're married? You seem so young."

You flinch, because you know it's true. You wonder why everyone else seems to see that you're too young to be so committed, but you failed to see it when it mattered most? You shake your head and try to brush it off, but the comment sticks and you can't stop it from circling your thoughts. You try to smile,

"Yeah, well, when you know you know," your lips are tight.

"That's true," Doug smiles wistfully, as if thinking about something, then removes himself from the thought with a shake of his head, "anyway, it's not all about the money. I'm sure your wife would love you even if you were broke."

Your lips are tight and suddenly your body itches with the need for him to stop talking immediately. You mumble a small _Yeah _and immediately change the subject.

"How about you?" you ask, "did you always want to run a deli?"

"Sort of," he shrugs, " I used to own a deli back in the States. To be honest, I mainly just wanted to go somewhere new and exciting."

"So you came to Dublin?" you raise an eyebrow, then laugh, "I'm kidding."

"No, no," he laughs along, taking the joke, "...well yeah."

You both laugh then, and something about the easiness of conversing with him makes your stomach settle.

"I don't see myself doing this forever though," the American adds, thoughtfully, "I love this place, but I don't know...feels like it might be time for a change."

"Really?" you raise your eyebrows, "seems a shame. Nice set-up you've got here. Mum would've given her right arm to work in a posh place like this."

"It's not bad, eh?" he smiles, then looks briefly around his deli with a blush of pride.

"Not bad?" you let out a guffaw, "look at all the fancy gadgets and stuff you got over there, this place is mint. Plus you make everything from scratch!"

"How do you know?" he asks, mischievously.

"I can just tell," you shrug, "it's obvious."

"Fancy yourself a bit of a chef then?" he smiles and quickly goes into the back kitchen to check on the bread rolls, then returns.

"I was pretty good, don't know if I'd call myself a 'chef,' like but..." you pause, thinking back on times when your mother would give you tips on how to make perfect pasta sauce and home-made guacamole, "I just remember helping out and felt like I was good at something."

You feel yourself becoming engrossed in emotions and the thought embarrasses you. Once again you've divulged too much to a complete stranger, but the American looks at you kindly and nods his head as if he truly understands what you mean. You smile and change the subject,

"Anyway, I'm gonna be late," you say, smiling and waving, "thanks for the cuppa!"

"No problem," he smiles and walks into the back kitchen.

As you exit through the front door, you can practically taste the sour-dough rolls as the American sets them out neatly in the display counter.

Xoxoxo

You arrive home from work earlier than usual, though the sky outside is dark and deep blue. It was a relatively easy day in the office and you begin to feel restless at the lacklustre nature of the day, the morning coffee you drank feeling useless and dormant in your veins. You're lying in your hotel room when your phone begins to ring, startling you from your thoughts. You immediately think it's Amy and feel your face redden with guilt. She hasn't called you since you snapped at her the other day. However, as you pull the phone towards you and glance at the screen, a name you never expected glares back at you.

_Danny calling..._

You frown, unable to figure out why Danny -one of the top managers in your firm- would be calling you. You press the answer button,

"Hello?" you say, unable to keep the confusion from your tone.

"Stevey-boy!" he replies, voice jovial, "how are you?"

You can imagine him perfectly, sitting in his office with a shit-eating grin while his red face sparkles with perspiration. You like Danny, but he's never once called you before while you've been in Dublin. It makes you feel uneasy.

"I'm good," you say, hesitantly, "Uh...is there something wrong?"

"What? No, no!" he says, as if you're crazy for asking, "I just called to ask if you wanted to hit the town tonight? Me and some of the guys from the office were just saying how we're fed up with work and want to scope out the Dublin scene."

You can't help the slight quirk of your lips as Danny tries to sound on the cusp of the latest lingo. You scratch the back of your neck, trying to think of an excuse, but nothing comes to mind. You try to explain to the man that you have work to do in the morning, but he quickly cuts you off,

"We all do, Ste!" he laughs, "come on, you work too hard! Every time I see you you're buzzin' with nerves! Loosen up! Be spontaneous."

You pause at the word. _Spontaneous. _You get flashbacks of being in the car with the Irishman, his eyes on yours while he asks you if you've ever done anything 'spontaneous' before in your whole life. You feel the anger build up within you and suddenly you find yourself saying,

"OK..." you can feel the determination rising in your throat, "Yeah, I'll come out. Why not."

"Brilliant!" he let's out a laugh and in the background you can hear him shout _Hey Lads, Ste's in! _While a myriad of guttural cheers sound off behind him, "great news!"

"When are you guys heading out then?" you ask, already regretting your agreement.

"I think the boys and I get out of the office around nine," he says, sounding giddy, "how about you meet us at the bar beforehand for a few drinks?"

Your eyes widen and immediately you ask,

"What bar?"

Danny hesitates for a moment and you can hear him talking with someone, a man, on the other end of the line. Finally you hear the crackle as his lips return to the mouthpiece,

"I think we're going to that place 'Shaggy's' or something. You heard of it?"

You let out a sigh of relief and quickly mumble something about vaguely remembering somewhere nearby. Danny seems appeased,

"Anyway, Ste I'll have to go here, I'll see you later," he says, "get ready for a big night out!"

The click of the phone as he hangs up leaves you with a feeling of dread. It's not that you don't enjoy going out, but the meeting you have at the end of the week weighs heavy on your mind and you can't help but feel like you should be working on your presentation over going on a big night out. You walk over to the window and look out over 'Fitzcarraldo's.' Your eyes widen as you see Brendan, leather jacket fixed like a second skin over his torso as he moves around the outer tables, picking up empty glasses. You tear your eyes away and something in your stomach swims at the sight of him. You remember the kiss like a tattoo etched upon your brain; painful, searing and permanent. You walk away, unable to look anymore without feeling your heart drop. You can't bare to think about it.

You walk over to your wardrobe and peer inside, trying to look for something that would be suitable for a 'big night out.' You wrinkle your nose as you bring out a crisp, white shirt and press it to your body. You look in the mirror, assessing yourself, before shaking your head in disapproval. Everything you've brought is only suitable for work. Finally, you settle on a green shirt and a pair of ill-fitting black jeans. You go for a quick shower, lathering the lavender gel over your body and scrubbing your hair until it shines. You step out into the warm, steamy bathroom and dispense some hair gel into the palm of your hand, slicking it through the strands until it's sitting just the way you like it.

You walk into the bedroom, towel wrapped around your waist, and you quickly pull on the outfit you'd already pre-picked for yourself. You tug on the green shirt and roll the sleeves mid-way up your forearms, believing the look makes you seem more casual. You give yourself a quick glance in the mirror and nod approvingly at what you see. You look good. You give yourself two thumbs up, as if that makes a difference, and you silently tell yourself that you can _be spontaneous too. _

When it's almost nine o'clock you leave your hotel room and make your way to 'Shaggy's'. Luckily, it's not too far, so you're able to find your way quite easily. You walk into the loud, noisy nightspot and immediately the smell of alcohol and incense invades your nostrils. You cough and squint against the darkness, trying to find Danny's familiar face in the crowd. You squeeze past an assortment of people on the way -most of which look like young University students- until finally you spot Danny's balding head through the crowd, sitting at a booth in a corner of the bar.

You walk over and wave as Danny spots you. He stands and takes you into his arms like you're the son he never had. You feel confused, awkward even, as you glance around the familiar faces of people from your office. You've never socialized with these people outside of work before, but nevertheless you wave at them and smile politely. Danny ushers you to sit down _next to Rita, _a brunette lady with glasses who looks like she belongs in a library more than this contemporary pub. You glance sideways at Rita and grin, showing your teeth and hiding them again, as if the gesture is too intimate. You instantly regret coming.

The first half hour of the night goes by quickly and you've already decided you're not going to drink much, so you order a non-alcoholic beer. When you finish, Danny peers up at you and offers to buy you another. You ask for the same, and when you tell him what you're drinking his mouth falls open in horror,

"What?" he shouts, causing the whole table to turn and look at him, "_non-alcoholic?_ What are you doing, boy?"

You timidly glance around the table, melting under the scrutiny, but you insist that you want the non-alcoholic beer. Danny tuts and shakes his head, disapproving of you deeply,

"Steven," he says seriously, ushering you closer with two fingers. You lean in, "I'm telling you Ste, I'm worried about you."

"What?" you glance at him in confusion, "why?"

"Because! You're too serious," he practically shouts it, undermining the intimacy of your proximity, "You need to loosen up, Ste. Live a little! One drink won't hurt."

"Yeah, but Danny I-"

He puts his fingers up to silence you and as he leans closer you can smell the alcohol on his breath. You question how long he's been drinking tonight, but something tells you he's had more to drink than the rest of the people at the table combined.

"I'll get you a shot," he smiles, nodding his head as if it's just what you need, "I'll get you a shot."

You try to protest as the middle-aged man hobbles up from his seat and walks through the heaving bar to get you your drink. You turn to Rita, whose sipping nonchalantly on a cocktail, and you ask,

"How long has Danny been drinking?"

Rita pulls the straw from her lips and smiles,

"I think he slipped in a few shots before he even left the office."

You nod, suspecting as much.

When Danny arrives back he's bought shots for the whole table, and everyone let's out a cheer as he sets them out in turn. Everyone sits by their shots and you hold yours between your index finger and thumb, eyeing it sceptically like it's liquid poison in a glass. You look over to Danny, who is ordering the rest of the table to raise their glasses, and he begins to make a toast,

"Right everyone," he says, holding his glass to the Heavens, "to the best night out in _'Smith and West'_ history! Let's get hammered!"

The whole table breaks out into a huge _AMEN! _As everyone downs their drink and slams the glass on the table. You look at the shot sceptically, unsure of whether this is a good idea or not, but suddenly you see the Irishman's face in your mind. You feel his lips, can sense him as if he's right beside you, and it takes your breath away.

You immediately bring the shot to your lips and down the contents.

That's when you begin your descent down the rabbit hole.

Xoxoxox

At the end of the night you find yourself alone, walking the streets of Dublin in the early day-time hours. Your insides feel like they weigh nothing as you hobble down the street, legs dancing as they splay in all directions, barely capable of movement. You vaguely remember losing everyone else in the club, where the flashing lights disorientated you and made you feel queasy. You don't remember how much you drank, but after your first shot in 'Shaggy's' you had another, and another, until you finally lost count of all the alcohol you'd consumed. Until you finally _forgot._

You walk down the street, shouting at passers-by while protective boyfriends clutch their girlfriends to their side and away from you. You hiss at them and ask if they have any change to get home, then slur a _thanks a lot!_ When they ignore you and walk on. You vaguely remember doing this kind of stuff when you were a teenager, before you married Amy and had Pauline and had _responsibilities._ Life made you grow up and somewhere along the way you forgot who you were.

As you walk along the road, swaying and causing mayhem, you suddenly feel the urgent need to pee. You find a nearby wall and hobble into a shadow on the footpath. You look around for any onlookers and quickly pull down your trousers to urinate against the wall. However, while you're relieving yourself, you hear the unmistakable sound of a car pulling up behind you. You frown as the stream stops and you pull up your trousers.

Slowly you turn around, able to feel the burning eyes of an onlooker before you even see them. You find yourself staring into the window of a cop car, where a man with dark eyes and a police uniform is staring back at you with disapproval. You glare as the man steps out of his car and stands in the street, looking your body up and down.

"What?" you snap, fed up with this guy already.

"Sir, are you aware that this is private property?" he asks, eyebrow raised.

You slowly turn and look up and down at the building you just relieved yourself upon. You feel irritation well up in your stomach as you turn back, brow raised and reply,

"No."

The man tilts his head as he looks at you, sensing your petulant tone. The man steps forward until he's right in front of you, and you stare back with unveiled contempt. You don't even care anymore. You already feel like your whole World is going up in flames, already feel powerless and you feel like being an asshole to a police officer is the closest thing you have to control. Somewhere in your mind, you wonder if this is truly the person who you are.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put your hands up against the wall," he says, eyes glinting with what seems to be mirth.

You feel anger swell up inside as your eyes widen and your lip peels back over your teeth.

"Yer wha?" you growl, practically shouting, "I an't done nothin' wrong!"

You realize that the louder you get, the more ammo this guy has against you, but the alcohol is clouding your judgement. You feel the hairs rise on your arms, ready for a fight, and everything inside you wants to push up against the man and show him who is boss. You don't know where this aggression is coming from, but it feels like it's been locked away for an eternity.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to lower your voice," he says, and his calm voice only infuriates you more.

You step forward, face in his, and hiss,

"And what if I don't?"

Before you can even blink, the man restrains you and forces you up against the wall. Your drunken legs stumble beneath you, jutting out at awkward angles as your face connects to the brickwork. Your breathing is heavy and you feel the man against your back and you close your eyes as handcuffs fasten around your wrists.

"All right, I think you've had enough," the man says, "I'm going to have to take you down to the station."

You let out a huff of air and turn your head around, panic suddenly causing your heart to quicken.

"Are you _serious_?" you ask, eyes wide, "but I've done nothin' wrong! What for?"

"Being aggressive to a police officer," he finally replies, "I'm going to have to ask you to remain silent."

You comply, unable to think of anything else to say. Your whole body feels hot as the alcohol works its way through you, causing you to feel clammy and sick. For a moment you feel like you're going to throw up, but your thoughts are soon distracted when the policeman leads you across the pavement and into the back of the police car.

You lean your head against the window and sigh as the man sits himself in the front seat, looks back at you with a smug smile, and pulls away from the pavement towards the police station.

You can't help but feel like you should have stayed at home.


	11. Chapter 11

_Dissertation is finished. Celebratory update! Thank you for the reviews for Chapter 10, all your comments are seriously appreciated and mean so much. _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 11**

You're kept in a cramped cell over night with several other men, all of whom are either drunk or on drugs. One guy is in the corner, bundled against the wall, looking out with pin-prick eyes. You feel like the scum of the earth, and as you start to sober up your whole body feels cold and chilled against the soft breeze that blows through the cell. You've been in here for eight hours, apparently to 'sober you up,' and your hand is tangled in your hair as you rest your head back against a solid, brick wall. Suddenly a door opens and the officer that arrested you the night before walks in, his movements slow and deliberate, as if taunting you.

"Steven Hay," he nods towards you, eyes tracing over your pathetic frame, "your lift's here."

You stand to your feet, swaying slightly as the blood pours through your whole body to your feet. You see black spots. The door to the cell is pulled open and you wince against the sound- the sound of your dignity flying away. You wobble out and the officer is forced to steady you as you're slowly led through the station, to the other side. As you walk out, the bright winter sun shines down on your head and you squint against it, trying to see a familiar face.

Finally, you spot him. He's perched against the side of his black sports car, jacket pulled over his shoulders as he glances down at that annoying book he always seems to be carrying around. He looks up at you as you approach him and you feel your body wither under his gaze. He eyes you up and down, then gives a nod,

"Hey," he says, casually, as if it's the most normal thing in the World.

"Hi," you mumble, mouth dry and barely able to form words.

You can feel the silence in the air around you, the only thing audible being the chatter of pedestrians as they walk by the station. Your hands are shoved in your pockets and you try with all your might to avoid his gaze. You must look like a mess with your dishevelled clothes and tousled hair, and the way his eyes glance up and down your body only serves to prove you right. After a moment you hear him clear his throat and you glance up at him, embarrassment and irritation burning your cheeks. He's the last person you would want to see you like this.

"I guess you want to go, then?" he asks, nodding his head towards the passenger seat, "hop in."

With that he turns around and gets into the driver's seat, barely waiting for you to step into the car before he starts the ignition and pulls out of the police station like a maniac. The drive is silent as you look out the window, head burning with the hangover and shame, while Brendan's eyes remain fixed on the road. You know he's waiting for you to talk, to explain, and the thought annoys you. Eventually, you feel the need to break the silence,

"Thanks," you mumble, and the word sticks in your throat- coats your mouth like a bad taste, "for picking me up."

"No problem," he replies.

The silence returns and you can feel your skin itch. Your shoulders are tense as you force yourself to stare out the window, mouth jutted out and brow furrowed against the beating glare of the sun. It infuriates you to feel his eyes, insistent and burning on your skin. You wish he would just spit out whatever it is he wants to say.

"One question," he finally breaks the tension, and you roll your eyes because you know what's coming, "what the_ fuck_ did you do?"

There's amusement in his voice, as if he can't believe someone like you could end up in jail.

"I don't want to talk about it," you snap, eyes razor sharp as you glare at him.

"Oh come on," he goads you, "how can I _not_ ask ye?"

"I said I don't want to talk about it, right?" you hiss, accent thick and slurred with the hangover, "just shut up."

"Now that's not very polite, Steven," he mumbles, sarcastically, "speaking like that to the man who just got your ass out of prison."

"I said _thanks,_ di'nt I?" you snap, "what more do you want?"

"Well I think I deserve an explanation!" he says, "I'm out a hundred quid because of you!"

You turn and look at him in awe, eyes wide and lips parted.

"A hundred?" you ask, amazed, "You paid that?"

The man let's out a low hum in response, as if he's just revealed too much information.

"Jesus," you whisper, then even lower "...thanks."

"Don't mention it," he waves you away, like he really doesn't want you to mention it again, "just tell me what happened."

You push your fingers through your hair and lean your elbow against the window, letting out a sigh as you think back on the night before. You barely remember what happened through the persistent throb of your headache. You remember wandering the streets, seeing the cop car, giving him hassle, but everything is a blur in your chaotic mind. Finally, you sigh,

"I was being aggressive to an officer," you mutter, angrily.

"That all?" he asks, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

"...no," you admit reluctantly, staring hard out the window, "...I pissed on a wall, too."

The man looks at you and let's out an uproarious laugh. You've never seen him smile so much in the time you've known him and it takes you off guard.

"It's not funny," you pout, but the man ignores you.

"It is," he laughs, "it's funny, Steven."

You can't help the quirk of your lip. You hate yourself for it.

"Shut up," you mumble, knowing it's pointless.

"All right," he says, but he's still laughing and you know it's not the end, "what were you doing walking the streets drunk, anyway?"

"I went out last night," you roll your eyes, as if it was stupid, "bunch of people from work. Lost them at the club and ended up walking home alone."

"Jesus Steven," he looks at you now, eyes wide. He seems angry, "after what happened to you outside the bar? You want to get yourself killed?"

You feel something warm inside you and you cringe at your own emotions. Something about the way he looks at you, concern in his eyes along with something else...something...protective. You've never seen someone look at you like that before and it immediately makes you tense up. You realize you're staring at him now and when he catches you, you immediately fix your expression into a frown and face out the window again.

"I'm not a little kid you know," you huff, "I can look after meself."

"Clearly," he grunts.

You fall into silence.

"Got to admit, was surprised you called me," Brendan muses, "thought I'd be the last person you'd ask for help."

You think about the last time you saw him. When he fought with you and turned his back on you in the street. When he challenged you to admit to something he insisted you wanted -made you _believe_ you wanted- then walked away when you refused. You remember the feel of his body as he taunted you, pressed his chest against yours until your breath filled your lungs to bursting capacity. Your mind told you to stand up to him, but your body betrayed you. You didn't admit it though. You didn't _tell _him you wanted it...at least you still have the comfort of knowing that.

You glance over at him and his eyes are on the road. You feel your cheeks burn.

"Well I don't _know_ anyone else in Dublin, do I?" you mumble.

"What about the people you went out with?" he asks, looking at you, "couldn't they pick you up from the_ slammer_?"

Your whole life is a joke to him...

"Yeah right," you grunt, "like I'd want them knowing. I'd be the talk of the whole office."

"You always care what people think?" he asks, and the question lies in the air.

"No," you finally respond, with little conviction, "just don't want it getting back to Amy, do I?"

"You sure that's the reason?" he challenges, but his eyes remain on the road.

"..maybe..."

"Hm," he grunts, "really?"

The silence is palpable as the unspoken lies in the air. Finally, you break it,

"When I was younger, I was an angry kid," you admit, unsure of why you're saying it but unable to stop yourself. You feel like he's judging you and the thought twists something inside you, "I used to get into all sorts of trouble...I just hate thinking people might still think it now. I hate people thinking I'm still a..."

You stop, unable to finish the sentence:

_Hate people thinking I'm still a screw-up. _

"Hm," he mumbles, nonchalantly.

You sit in silence, refusing to give anymore information about yourself to a man who clearly couldn't give two fucks. You wonder why he has this ability to have you spewing your guts without even angling it out of you. You recall the frequent times Amy tried, _begged_ you to open up to her. When you were stressed or sad or upset you would always bottled up your feelings until breaking point...but this man barely says a word and you're telling him your life story. You feel weak for it.

"I was the same," he replies, after a moment of thoughtful silence.

You look at him with wide eyes, surprised at the seemingly uncharacteristic confession. Something stirs inside you at the words and you can't pinpoint exactly what it is, but it feels like something familiar. Feels like you're not alone.

"I know what it's like to be angry," he continues, eyes still stuck on the road.

You look at his knuckles and they're turning white as he clutches the steering wheel. His jaw is tense and you swear it's like he feels the same as you- powerless to stop the words falling from his mouth despite the desire to hold back.

"Why were you angry?" you ask, turning to look at him.

"No idea," he shrugs, and he genuinely looks like he doesn't have an answer, "guess it was just in me."

You silently face forward and stare with blank eyes at the passing cars and pedestrians. The whole World feels busy, but inside the car there's only silence. You feel yourself nod in understanding, even though he can't see you. You furrow your brow and the words repeat in cycles, over and over in your head like a mantra. You know what it's like to have that feeling of anger inside- that feeling of wanting things to be different yet barely having the self-control to make it happen. You also know the guilt of those feelings; of having everything you want and still believing it's not enough. Will never be enough.

"Me too," you mumble, staring out the window at the passing streets.

You're not sure if he heard you, but something in your mind tells you he did. You feel his eyes burning into the back of your head, but you don't turn. All you can think about it how you got to this moment -in this car- being driven away from a police station by a man who makes you question yourself to the point of insanity.

"We all do things we regret, Steven," the Irishman says finally, turning to give you a brief smile before putting his eyes on the road again.

You spend the rest of the journey in silence.

Xoxox

Later, when you're back at your hotel room, you take a shower to wash the remainder of the night off your skin. You walk into the bedroom, towel around your waist, and pick up your phone.

_5 missed calls: Amy. _

You sigh and sit down on the bed, then press the 'dial' button and wait for her to answer. The response is almost immediate as the phone clicks and her worried voice calls down from the other end.

"Ste?" she asks, voice ragged, "I've been worried sick!"

"I'm sorry," it falls from your mouth immediately, "I swear I meant to call."

"Ste, this is ridiculous," she hisses, voice frantic and raw as she shouts at you, "where the Hell have you been? Don't give me any of that 'work' crap!"

You close your eyes, heart dropping in your chest. You know she's right.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, and it's pathetic but it's all you have.

"What's going on, Ste?" her voice sounds fragile then, breakable, "please tell me."

There's silence on the phone and you can feel your cheeks burn. You open your mouth, try to find the words, but nothing comes. You can't form anything coherent. You can't tell her you were arrested and spent the night in jail. What could you possibly say?

"Is there someone else?" she asks.

You freeze at the words and immediately your heart is pounding in your chest. Your whole body feels like the air has left you and suddenly you wonder how she knows. How can she know? You feel paranoid, like there's cameras everywhere and they're all watching your every movement. You know it's irrational, but it makes your skin prickle with worry. You open your mouth, close it, swallow down the fear. You calm yourself and try to remain cool.

"No," you snap, as if it's ridiculous, "of course not, why would you say that?"

You feel yourself getting angry now. Defensive. How dare she question you; when have you ever given her any reason to believe that you would do something like that?...only you have done something like that, haven't you? Have had thoughts about someone else, have _been_ with someone else, have _dreamt _about someone else. Your whole mind is encompassed by thoughts of someone else.

Your mind skips back to the night in the cellar -before that, even- when you were wiping down the table and he'd walked up behind you. You remember the heat spreading through your body, the primal desire, and the memory of the blood boiling in your system made you feel alive. You remember turning into him, the smell of him and licking your lips at the mere possibility...the mere _possibility_ of what could happen if you just gave in. The fear that encompasses you right now at that thought, that memory, is almost too much for your heart to take. You shake your head and try to drown out the voices of doubt. You tell yourself it's not your fault. That thing with Brendan...it was a mistake. You swear it was. You told him it was.

"How can I _not_ say that, Ste?" she asks, flustered, "when you're acting so...so..."

"What?" you snap.

"So _distant!"_ she groans, "So gone! I know you're in Dublin but it feels like you're gone."

"That's ridiculous," you mutter, but you close your eyes and press your hand to your forehead, "I'm not cheating, Amy."

"Well then what's going on?" she shouts down the phone at you, "I have to know!"

"**Nothing!" **you finally scream, unable to keep your emotions to yourself.

Suddenly you feel the pressures of the week weighing down at you, suffocating you until you feel like your windpipe is being cut off. There's silence on the phone.

"Now stop calling me," you mutter, eyes hard as you stare at your reflection in the mirror. You can't stop yourself, "I'll be back on Friday."

With that you hang up, ignoring her as she calls your name over the phone. You close your eyes and you can feel the hot swell of tears pricking your lids. You wipe away the errand tears with the back of your hand and sniff, overwhelmed by the tidal wave of emotion you experience as it threatens to take you under. The Irishman's face flashes into your mind and you feel once again like he's the only person you can turn to. You ask yourself how it's come to this, you needing answers from a man who continuously confuses you and makes you doubt yourself.

When the feeling of drowning becomes too much, you pull yourself from your seat and grab your coat. You need to find him. You need to ask him why you're like this. Why you _feel_ like this. You don't know why you think you'll find out from him, but it feels like he's the only one who might know.

You walk briskly down the hotel staircase, heart racing as you get closer. Behind the bar you spot Brendan's sister, head of blonde hair pulled back as she let's out a loud laugh at a tipsy customer. You march over and ask her where Brendan is, to which she distractedly replies,

"He's in his office, love."

She continues speaking, but you have no time to chat. You immediately round the corner and walk through a door at the end of the bar which proclaims _Staff Only _in sharp lettering. You walk in through the door and freeze at the sight before you.

You see Brendan pressed up against the far wall, while Vinnie stands close-by with his hands on the Irishman's blazer. You feel your whole body stiffen at the sight as your knuckles whiten on the door handle. Brendan looks up at you, and his eyes widen as he glances between you and Vinnie. The room seems to go silent as the blonde turns his head and stares at you, eyebrow raised like he's questioning your very existence.

"Steven," Brendan says, surprise and shock lacing his voice.

You don't respond. Instead, you turn on your heel and storm away as fast as your feet will carry you. Your blood is pumping through your system as you tear out of the bar, teeth clenched as you walk across the road and back into your hotel. You can hear the Irishman behind you the whole way, calling out to you as his footsteps pound along the pavement behind yours. You remain silent, ignoring him as the rage flows through you at an alarming rate. You've never felt this angry, this...the word _betrayed_ springs to your mind and you immediately shake it out. You don't feel betrayed, how can you? Betrayal implies there's something there to betray and there's nothing. _Nothing._

So why does it feel like your anger could bring down the building?

You finally get to your room and you can feel him gaining speed on you, until finally he is right behind you, pressing against the door as you try to shut it on his fingers.

"Steven!" he breathes, voice ragged, "for fuck's sake, what's the matter with ye?"

The question only serves to fuel your rage. He knows why you're angry, must know, why else would he be here if he didn't? You only wish he would have the courtesy to explain to _you _why you feel this way. The rising emotions are so powerful, so unlike anything you've felt before, that they confuse you to no end. You try to keep him back, but he's too strong for you and eventually he bursts in through the door and into the room. You slam it shut and march in after him, movements fuelled by pure anger and rage. You can barely see him, all you can see is red.

He breathes in and out, eyes locked on you, expression confused.

"It was nothing," he shakes his head, not even waiting for you to have the first word, "nothing happened."

"Who do you think you are, eh?" you bark, body fizzing with restrained emotion.

"Steven, just listen-"

"No, I won't listen!" you cry, barely able to contain the swell of anger coursing through you, "You should be ashamed, ya know, getting with another guy's bloke!"

"What?" his eyebrows shoot up, like you've just slapped him.

"Don't play dumb, right?" Your eyes narrow on him, finger pointing to his face accusingly, "you know that Vinnie is seeing the guy in the deli, but that still wouldn't stop ya, would it?"

"Douglas?" he seems incredibly perplexed now, as if he didn't know that's the whole reason you're so furious, "didn't know ye's were so close."

His voice is laced with a tinge of bitterness.

"He's a decent bloke," you fold your arms, "and you have no right doing that!"

"I didn't _do_ anything!" he glares at you.

"Right," you snort out a laugh of contempt.

"I didn't," he says, through gritted teeth, "I'm no liar, Steven."

"Look, I told you it doesn't matter, all right?" you snap, barely able to hide your emotions, "if you want to get it on in your office with an ex-boyfriend, that's none of my business."

"He's not an ex-boyfriend," the man snaps.

"Come off it, Brendan!" you hiss, "you told me yourself he was!"

"He's not! I said he was an ex," the Irishman insists, "he's an ex-something. Ex-fuck, ex-pain-in-the-ass, but he's not an ex-boyfriend."

"Certainly didn't look like he's an ex-anything from what I just saw," you hiss, eyes fixed sharply to the floor.

You have no idea what's prompting you to say these things, but it's like you can't keep them to yourself. It feels like the words are coming from somewhere deep inside that you can't control- instinctual. He stands up straight, head cocked and eyes staring into your very soul. You shift uncomfortably, but your anger still burns low in your stomach.

"Why do you care?" he finally shrugs, shaking his head in annoyance and confusion, "why are ye so angry?"

"Because!" your eyes are wide, your hands thrown out like you can't believe he's asking, "because it's wrong, all right?"

"What's 'wrong'?" he asks, "nothing's 'wrong,' nothing even happened! I told ye!"

"You fucking _annoy me!" _you burst, overcome with so much fury and frustration that you've just uttered something incredibly inarticulate and stupid.

"_I _annoy _you?"_ He exclaims, outraged, as if it's a joke, "they make headache tablets for dealing with people like you."

"Very funny," you huff.

"Hey, you have no right to be angry!" he finally barks, while his lips pull back in a sneer.

"I'm not angry" you protest, trying feebly to seem nonchalant.

"A blind man could see it, Steven," he snorts.

"'ere, the only reason I'm bothered at all is because I came in to try and talk to you and I saw you about to get it on with another bloke's boyfriend," you step forward and point at him, face contorted in an angry glare, "all right?"

He stops, eyes scanning yours for a truth you're not sure if he can see or not. You feel the urge to look away, to protect your thoughts from whatever it is he can see in them.

"It was nothing, Steven," he finally says, unexpectedly, "I swear on my life."

You look up at him. Your eyes widen and you swear it's like he's trying to reassure you.

"Didn't look like nothing," you mutter, voice menacingly low, only to increase in volume as you speak, "for someone who claims it's an ex he's always around a lot!"

"Look, it's..." he pauses, trying to think of the words, "it's complicated, OK?"

"I'm sure it is," you smile, a bitter twist of the lips.

"I thought you said you weren't angry!" he snaps.

"I don't know what I am, OK!"

The comment hangs in the air and you immediately want to cover your mouth and put it back in. Your heart is hammering as you stare at him. Brendan's eyes are wide with surprise. The silence seems to go on forever, until finally the Irishman speaks.

"Vinnie," he mutters, voice stuttering as he tries to find the right words, until eventually he gives up and sighs, "nothing happened, Steven, I swear. I told him to get lost."

"Whatever," you practically spit the word, "not like it matters."

"Doesn't it?" he asks, mirthlessly smiling.

"No," you huff, mouth jutted out in a pout.

The silence that follows fills every particle in the room, fizzing with raw energy.

"...what were you wanting to talk to me about?" he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

"What?" you hiss.

"Earlier, you said you wanted to talk to me," he reminds you, "about what?"

"...nothing," you reply, internally reprimanding yourself.

Whatever it was you wanted to ask him...the moment has gone. He looks at you for a long moment, then shakes his head and rolls his eyes. You let out a sigh of relief that he's dropped the subject.

"Look, Vinnie came on to me," he seems flustered, one of the rare times you've seen him look anything other than stoic, "you don't have to worry about Douglas."

You stare at him and the look of sincerity in his eyes is undeniable. You feel your anger subside and as it does you find yourself wondering why this man cares what you think. Why he even gives you a second thought at all, when he owes you nothing. You find your eyes travelling over his face, and you notice that it looks tired and worn and deflated.

"I didn't want it," he says, eyes glancing over yours.

You feel like you're not breathing and suddenly you get the impression that you're not talking about Doug anymore. Don't know if you ever were. Your heart is beating in your chest and once again you find yourself being pulled towards him. Your skin prickles with anticipation. Your remember this feeling all too well, the last time you were alone with him, and you feel your heartbeat quicken. Inside, your mind screams at you not to submit.

_Is there someone else?_

Amy's face flashes into your head and you suddenly remember why you're doing this. Why it's imperative that you stay away from this man, because he makes you feel careless. Like years of resisting this urge have been worthless. You have responsibilities, you can't afford to give everything up...not for this.

_No. There's no one else. _

"You have to go," you finally mutter, "now."

"Steven, look-"

"I said _now,"_ you snap and walk over to the door, opening it for him to leave.

You movements are tinged with urgency, and you're not sure if he knows that the urgency comes from not trusting yourself. He walks past you, confusion and anger whirling behind his blue eyes. You feel your insides cramp as he leaves, and closing the door behind him feels like it takes all your energy.

When he's gone, you pull your phone from your pocket, tears rolling down your eyes and write a message:

_To: Amy_

_I'm sorry x. _

You click send, then turn over and press your face into the pillow of your bed.


	12. Chapter 12

_Thank you for all the reviews for the previous chapter. Here's Ch.12 a little earlier than expected! _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 12 **

You wake up the next day to the sound of your phone vibrating on your bedside cabinet. A fine sweat soaks your forehead and your whole body is tense as you jerk up into sitting position, eyes searching the room frantically for a danger you're not sure has passed. You had the dream again. You can practically smell the gun powder from the shots, red on your hands as you cry into the bloodied shirt of a man you don't know...a torture you're forced to relive almost every night. You let out a breath and close your eyes, trying to pull yourself together again. You shake your head to erase the images and turn around to grab your phone, welcoming the distraction. One new message. You open it and it's from Amy -her reply to your text the night before. You open it up and read with tentative eyes:

_I forgive you._

You let out a long, shaky breath. You feel relieved that she's at least messaged you back and technically the words should soothe you, but something in her message gives off an air of coolness. Your shoulders slump as your heartbeat drops low in your stomach and suddenly you feel the need to text her back- to seek clarification. You meant the apology from the night before, but now you wonder if it's too little too late. You bring up the text box and write another message:

_I promise I'll make it up to you when I get home. X_

Your fingers poise over 'send' button, hesitant, but after a moment you press your thumb down and the message disappears into the 'sent' box. You wait for a moment, twiddling your thumbs nervously while you watch your phone in anticipation. Every sound startles you as you wait for her to reply. After five minutes, you let out a sigh and decide to take a shower to distract yourself.

You lather the soap over your body and wash your hair, steam condensing on the tiles as you lean your back against the wall and let the water soak your face. You idly watch the water trickle down the drain, wishing that you could just disappear down it as well. As you stand, your mind starts to wander. You lightly drag your hand down your body to play with the short hairs of your stomach. Your eyes flick up to a spot on the ceiling and you close them gently, droplets of water catching on your lashes. You haven't done this in what feels like forever, and your body is so tense you know the release would soothe you. Your hand drifts lower until you're painfully close to your groin. You're almost about to touch it, when suddenly your eyes snap open and you pull your fingers away and up to your hair again. You're too afraid of what images may come to mind if you do that- can't trust yourself. You scrub hard at your scalp.

You step out of the shower into the steamy bathroom and wrap a white towel around your torso. You walk into the bedroom and see your phone on the bed, taunting you, and you're nervous in case she hasn't replied at all. You sit on the soft duvet and reluctantly look at the screen. One new message. You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding and open the message.

_Can't wait. _

It doesn't hold the same warmth as her usual messages; no kisses, no anecdotes about her morning, no nothing...you toss the phone aside and press your head into your hands, fingers sliding down your face as you let out a sigh. She still hasn't forgiven you, you know that. You're not sure if she ever will. You peer up and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, brow furrowed and mouth tense.

You stand to your feet and continue to get dressed for the day.

Xoxox

You sit at the desk in your office, a small cubicle with three walls, and stare at your computer screen. You feel completely isolated in this little place. You reassure yourself that it's only a temporary space while you're working in Dublin, but you can't wait to get back to England and back to your real office. This cubicle feels too exposed- too much like anyone could walk in at any moment. It makes you tense.

You bite on the end of your pen and chew on the nub, teeth working up and down the plastic while the fingers of your free hand drum on the table. You swing back and forth on your revolving chair, boredom kicking in, and no matter how hard you try and concentrate on the work you have to do you can't help your mind from diverting.

You think of Amy and everything in your body wants to call her and ask if she's all right. Guilt gnaws at your insides and makes your stomach feel nauseous, until you're consumed by thoughts of her. You realize you've been neglectful, that you haven't been the best husband, but you want to be. God, you want to be. You pull out your phone and look at the screen- no missed calls. You slam it down on the desk and shake your head, trying to get out the pent-up frustration. It's not like Amy not to call, but then you remember telling her not to and so you realize that she must still be mad. That her forgiveness was not forgiveness at all, simply a false statement said to appease you. Part of you wonders if she'll even be there when you get home.

You tear your mind from the thoughts, too terrifying to think of. You're nothing without her, and though the shackles of your marriage make you feel constricted, your heart thumps at the thought of being free.

It doesn't take long for your mind to wander to something else...

You think of the Irishman the night before, eyes boring into yours as he insists that nothing happened with him and Vinnie. You find yourself thinking of them together in that office, Vinnie so close you're positive he could smell the Irishman's aftershave, and you feel the skin on the back of your neck start to prickle. You feel the blood under your skin burning hot as your mind wanders back to a time when you didn't know him, never knew the name Brendan fucking Brady...the life he had before. You wonder how him and the blonde know each other, what their history is, and the thought of it makes you sick to your stomach. You tell yourself it's wrong, what he's doing to Doug. What him and Vinnie are both doing to Doug...but you find it hard to ignore the sting in your heart. Part of you knows the Irishman was being honest when he said nothing happened, the look in his eyes was enough to convince you, yet something about how close the blonde was still makes your knuckles curl tightly and turn white around the pen in your hand. You hear a crunch and your eyes are wide as you turn your head and look at the crushed plastic in your palm.

"_Fuck_," you hiss, dropping the pen as ink spills out onto the desk.

Your foot is shaking under the table and your fingers are making drumming sounds on the wood. Everything around you is a distraction and you can't afford to be distracted because you have a deadline for your presentation. This presentation is important, it's vital that it goes well, otherwise who knows what will happen. You don't have time to be thinking about tall, dark strangers who seem to be lurking in every shadow.

You decide to get a cup of coffee to distract yourself, though coffee is the last thing you need. Your shoulders are tight as you walk up the long, beige corridor to the end of the office, passing several cubicles as you go. The coffee machine is placed at the far wall and you grab a cup and shove it under the nozzle. You press the button and wait for the machine to start, but it's jammed. You feel the blood rise through your body as you shake the machine. Eventually it begins to sputter out brown liquid, droplets seeping into your cup slowly. You feel the hot pressure under your skin rising as you grit your teeth, watching the sluggish movement of the water-level as it rises, agonisingly slow. Finally, you snatch the coffee cup and turn quickly on your heel, too agitated to look up, and without warning you walk straight into Danny.

You jump and let out a cry of surprise as the round man yells out in pain, pulling his white shirt from his body and blowing on the stain where your scalding coffee has landed on his chest. He looks up at you with shocked, bewildered eyes. You try to bumble out an apology, but the older man just sighs and shakes his head at the floor. After a few moments he looks up at you from under lowered lashes, expression tight,

"Ste," he says, "are you all right?"

The question throws you off-guard and a sudden feeling of paranoia washes over you. You furrow your eyebrows and open your mouth,

"Uh..." you mumble, hesitant, "yeah...yeah, fine."

He looks up at you sceptically, eyes searching yours with tiny movements.

"It's just you seem a little...tense," he finishes, carefully.

"Do I?" you ask.

"Yes," he nods, slowly, "more-so than usual. You look a little pale too, are you feeling OK?"

"I'm fine, Danny," you assure him, irritated by this line of questioning, "seriously, don't worry. I just didn't see you, is all."

You turn to leave, but a hand catches you at the wrist and you turn back to see Danny's eyes searching yours; concern and something else etched in his gaze.

"It's not just that, Ste..." he says, hesitant, "you've seemed tense all day. You don't look well. Maybe you should go ho-"

"No," you interrupt, already knowing what he was about to say, "no, I'm fine, I can finish the day."

"Stevey-boy," he puts a hand on your shoulder and you feel a prickle of heat rise through your chest and arms, "taking a breather is nothing to feel bad about. Just take the rest of the day off, get some sleep. Work will be here tomorrow."

You like Danny, but right now he is testing your patience and you're not sure how much longer you can fight the urge to lash out. Feels like you've been holding it in too God damn long.

"I said I'm fine," you say through gritted teeth, silently shrugging off his arm, "I'll finish my shift."

"Look Ste," Danny is serious now, hand back on your arm and tighter than before, "I'm not saying this to be an asshole. Really, I'm not...but your work hasn't been great lately."

The statement makes everything in the World feel like it's grinding to a halt. What does he mean your work hasn't been great? You're sure you've done nothing different -sure you've been working your ass off- so what's not great about it? Your eyebrows are furrowed and Danny is looking at you like you're about to keel over at any moment. You can feel the blood draining from your face, pouring out of your body. Too many thoughts are flowing through your mind, too muddled to make sense of, but you can't help but wonder why -if your work was so bad- did Danny organize a staff booze-up a few nights ago? He's speaking to you, but you can barely hear him, it's all white noise apart from the words _your work hasn't been great lately._

"I-I don't understand," you finally say, eyes searching the ground frantically as you try to think of what you possibly could have done wrong, "I haven't been doing anything different..." _have I? _

"It's fine, Ste," and now he's patting your back like a child, "I'm sure it's just nerves. I'm telling you, just go home, rest up, you'll be back to your usual self in no time!"

"M-my usual self?" _But what's changed?_

"Yes!" he smiles, beam making his face wider, "no time at all. Just go home, rest up and come in bright and early tomorrow!"

You feel your insides twisting in on themselves as your heart beats frantically in your chest. All you can do is silently move as Danny ushers you back to your cubicle to gather your things. Every shred of confidence has been stripped from you and you can feel your whole life slipping away. You feel like you've done everything in your power to do your work properly, to do it right, and now you're being told it's still not enough. You're not sure how much more you can give.

You grab your coat and your briefcase and silently, sadly, make your way out of the office. You walk out into the city streets and you feel like a ghost as a myriad of people walk past you. Everyone seems to have somewhere to go, somewhere to be, but not you...you feel useless. You thought you were good at your job, but ever since you came to Dublin this time it's just all been a mess. Everything you'd worked so hard for is getting further and further away...you can't even remember what it is you were working so hard for in the first place. To support your wife? Amy hates your guts. To provide for Pauline? She'd probably be better off without you. To be someone significant? You feel worthless. You hate yourself for dwelling in self-pity, but your thoughts spiral out of control as you continue to aimlessly walk through the city. You don't feel like going back to the hotel, it's too early, so when you see an old-fashioned looking pub at the corner of the street you feel yourself being drawn to it. All you want to do is drink in quiet solitude and wash away whatever dignity you have left.

You walk into the pub and the darkness inside takes moments for your eyes to adjust to. The building smells like stone and musk inside; the scent of older men and late boozy nights. You walk up to the counter and fiddle in your pocket for your wallet. The grey-haired, bearded bartender is at the other end of the counter, serving a middle-aged man in a red, chequered shirt. He looks like he's had as bad a day as you have. You can't help but stare as the punter rants to the barman about some event in his evening, while he simply stares at the tabletop and nods when he feels the need.

A cough sounds behind you. You don't know why it grabs your attention, but it does. You slowly turn your head and suddenly you are faced with the unmistakable, moustached face of Brendan Brady. He's looking at you from a small, rounded booth at the side of the pub, beer glass poised in front of him while his arms rest lazily on the table. Your breath is hitched in your throat and you shake your head, unable to believe your eyes.

"I don't believe it," you mutter.

He can't hear you, but the look he gives indicates that he seems to be thinking the same thing.

"What a surprise," he says, dryly, then takes a gulp of his beer.

"Brendan..." you mumble, because it's the only thing you can think to say as you stare at him.

"Steven..." he replies, in the same tone.

You both stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and for a moment you forget that there are other people in the room. You remember the rage and tense heat between you the night before, as you told him to get out and locked the door tight behind him. Standing here now, you realize you were right not to trust yourself. The air in your lungs feels like its been stolen. Something has changed within you towards this man, you know it, and you know that last night is the cause of it. You remember Vinnie pressed up against him and your soul burns with the thought. You're afraid he can see it in you. You were afraid he could see it in you last night, too. That's why you can barely look him in the eye now.

"I think we need to talk," he says, gesturing to the seat beside him.

You immediately want to run. Everything inside you screams to flee, but you can't. You can't avoid this forever, especially considering you can't seem to get rid of the Irishman even if you try. You stare at his outstretched hand, beckoning you to come and sit, but your whole body is reluctant.

"No," you slowly shake your head, then turn to leave, "I can't deal with this today, me."

"What's the matter?" he stands up from his chair, voice sharp, and you're forced to stop and look, "I just want to talk to ye, five minutes!"

Your brow furrows at the edge to his tone. What right does he have to be annoyed? You feel like arguing but you don't. Something inside you wants to hear him out and you're not sure why, not sure what he could possibly say, but you feel like you have to know. Besides, today can't get much worse. You nod slowly and walk over to the chair, suddenly forgetting about your drink. You feel like you need to be sober for this, in case it all becomes too much. You tentatively sit down, making sure to keep as much space as possible between you in the booth. If the Irishman notices, he says nothing, but you can see his cheek twitch as he cracks his neck and looks you up and down.

"Nice to see ye again," he laughs, and you can't tell if he's sincere or not.

"Wish I could say the same," you mumble, unable to look him in the eye.

"Nice..." he says.

"What are you even doing here?" you ask, lip pulled back in a sneer, "you've got your own pub to drink in."

"Hm" he snorts out a laugh, "fancied a change."

"So you chose here?" you shake your head, endlessly confused by this man.

"So what, I'm not allowed to have a drink now?" he snaps, eyes fixed hard and cold on yours.

"I didn't mean that," you mumble, "just seems weird you always seem to end up in the same place as me."

"I ain't following you, if that's what you're getting at," he says through gritted teeth.

You glance up at him then, eyes dancing over his face. On the surface he appears cool and collected, but you can't help but sense a volcano brewing beneath the surface.

"If you got me over here to talk about Vinnie, then forget it," you mutter, lips jutted out in a pout, "I already heard what you had to say. I don't want to get involved."

"Don't want to talk about Vinnie," he replies immediately, barely missing a beat.

You raise your eyebrows at him, surprised. What else is there to talk about?

"...you don't?" you ask.

"Nope," he replies, emphasising the sound.

"Then what ?" you lick your lips, unsure if you even want to know.

He looks at you for a moment, eyes scanning your face- your eyes, your nose, then your lips. His gaze hesitates over your mouth for a second too long and he's a fool if he doesn't think you notice. You turn your face away and he clears his throat.

"I think it's time to talk about the 'elephant in the room,' Steven."

Your heart is hammering and you immediately turn your face back towards him. The words hang in the air, thick and cancerous, and once again you're overcome by the urge to run.

"What are you talking about?" you ask, shrugging.

"You know," he mutters; low, menacing, "you _know."_

His eyes are dark as he stares at you, the shadows of the pub dancing over them. You glance at his hands, which are clasped around the pint glass, and the knuckles are white. You're not sure if it's your imagination, but you swear you see a tremor pass through them. You look back up at him and shake your head.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say.

He takes a deep breath in and the sound startles you. He leans back in his seat and for a moment you worry that he's going to hit something...someone. He trails a hand back through his hair then down over his moustache, as if he needs to keep them busy- distracted. The silence between you fizzes.

"You're a funny little guy, Steven," he sniffs, shrugging back his shoulder as if trying to release the tension from them, "how anyone knows where they stand with you is beyond me."

"Yeah, well it goes both ways," you sneer.

The Irishman leans forward then, fingertips resting on the table as if about to reach forward and grab you at any moment. His eyes are wild and wide as they look into yours and you feel yourself moving back in your seat.

"Listen Steven," he says, "you can go on telling yourself that I'm an asshole or whatever it is that makes you happy, but nothing happened with Vinnie in my office, yeah?"

"So you said," you tut, "I told you I don't want to hear it again."

He's silent for a moment, and you feel something like a storm brewing in the air. His breaths sound harsh to your ears.

"You know..." he says slowly, quietly, "if I didn't know any better I'd say you were jealous, Steven."

Your eyes shoot to him then and you feel rage gathering in your chest. You know he's trying to get a rise out of you. Trying to push any buttons he knows you'll react to. You stare at him, his arms folded while he slowly leans back in his seat. He looks pleased with himself, like he's got you, and you feel even more annoyed that your body is reacting as the hairs on your arms stand erect. What's even worse is that you take the bait,

"You wish, Brendan," you snap, "look, the only reason I'm annoyed is because of Doug, yeah?"

"Such a Samaritan, Steven," he drawls, "looking out for your little deli friend."

"He's a good bloke, like I said," you mumble, voice teetering off.

"Mmm...so this is all about Douglas then, yeah?" his eyes look up to you, then down to the table, "...all just looking out for Douglas."

You don't respond, unsure of what he's getting at. You feel like you're meant to read between the lines.

"Yeah, it is," you furrow your brow, confused.

He leans in again and says,

"You sure about that?"

You shake your head slowly and look him in the eyes. Your body is getting warm, hot, and the heat makes your limbs and fingers twitch.

"What are you getting at?" you ask.

"Absolutely nothing," he says, eyes glinting.

"No, what are you talking about?" You're annoyed now, fingers clenched tight, you need answers.

"What do you think I'm talking about?" he whispers, daring you to utter the words you dare not utter.

You shake your head, brow furrowed, and your pulse is racing.

"What kind of game is this you're playing?" you whisper.

"If this is a game then it's not just me playing, Steven," he leans forward in his seat, arms pressed to the table, "there's two players here..."

You swallow and you can feel his eyes on the ripple of your throat. Your lips part and it's only now as you look at him that you seen him for the hunter that he is. There's something in his eyes that makes you feel like you're his next kill, but at the same time draws you into his web. Who _is _this man? His face is close to yours, closer than what's comfortable, and he cocks his head to the side.

"Or have you forgotten about our time in the cellar?" he raises an eyebrow, "I know I haven't."

You don't think, you just immediately get up from your seat and grab your coat. You can't listen to this. It's poison. You can't listen to another word he has to say and all you can hear is your heart in your ears and your own angry breaths as you stomp over the wooden floorboards of the old pub and out into the streets.

Brendan's words ring in your mind as you continue to walk the cobbled streets of Dublin city. You find yourself at your hotel before you know it and your feet carry you mindlessly up the staircase and back to your room. You throw your coat on the bed and sigh as you propel your whole weight onto the mattress, spreading your limbs out in disarray. The day could not get much worse.

Why does the Irishman have such a profound affect on you? There's something in the way he speaks to you, something low and secret, that touches you to the very foundation of your core. You hate him for making you doubt yourself, doubt your own convictions, and most of all you hate him for reminding you of that night in the cellar...which you now can't stop thinking about. You don't let yourself dwell too much in your own thoughts, but you can't stop the images flashing in your head and even the brief glimpses are enough to send chills through your entire body. Your heart is beating and you try in vein the slow it, but to no avail. You despise your own body for betraying you.

You turn over in the bed and close your eyes. The Irishman's words flicker through your head, playing over and over. _If this is a game, then it's not just me playing, _he said. What the Hell did he mean by that? His cryptic words make your heart twist, because he's suggesting that you're part of this 'game.' This _whatever it is_ that lies between you both, electrifying the air until you can't see straight. You wonder briefly if you are. If whatever brings you both together every time is something in you, some closed-off part of your conscious that forces you towards him.

You leap up from the sheets and immediately, desperately, grab your phone from your blazer pocket. With unsteady hands you dial Amy's number into the keypad and press it to your ear. You try to force out thoughts of the Irishman from your mind, because you have other things to think about. Some things are more important than needs and wants and desires. Some people don't deserve to have everything. To have what they want.

You wait with held breath for Amy to answer the phone and after the first few, short rings you begin to panic. What if she's gone? You imagine empty wardrobes and spare rooms dwelling in a cold, barren house. She can't be gone. If she goes, she takes everything.

However, your thoughts are unjustified...she answers.

"Hello," her voice is airy and light.

"Amy?" you ask, as if you can't believe it.

"That's me," she quips, "how are you, sweetheart?"

You breathe out a sigh of relief at the term of endearment. Maybe your own paranoid, guilt-ridden brain had created panic out of nothing.

"I'm good, Honey," you can't remember the last time you called her that, "I just wanted to call and say...and tell you I'm so sorry...for everything."

"Aw, it's OK Ste, you're busy," she seems genuine and once again you sigh with relief, "I know you've got a lot on at the moment."

"That's no excuse," your mouth drops and you feel the guilt lining your stomach, warm and heavy and sickening, "I shouldn't be here, I should be home...with you and Pauline."

"You'll be home soon," she says, but her voice is distracted.

"I know," you nod frantically, "and that's why, when I get home, I'm organising a trip for the family. Just you, me and Pauline...what d'ya say?"

"That sounds wonderful," you can hear the smile in her voice, "one second sweetie..."

You smile and wait for her to return, but something about the exchange seems off. You can't help but notice the distraction in her voice. You're suspicious about the easiness in her tone, the lack of caring. You squint and listen into the earpiece and your eyes widen as you hear a distinct, male voice in the background. Your mouth opens and you frown, unable to pinpoint who it belongs to. You don't know anyone, any man, who would be at the house while you're not there. You don't recognise it and the thought makes you nervous.

"Amy, where do you keep the tools?" the man asks, voice low and deep.

"Oh, just in the shed!" she calls out, chirpily, "I'll show you in a second."

You hear her come back on the line,

"sorry about that," she says, "just needed to sort something out there."

"Who was that?" you bite, unable to help the sharpness in your tone.

"Oh, that was just Mike," she says, as if it's the simplest thing in the World.

"...Mike," you swallow, unable to help the slight increase in your heart-rate.

"Yeah, you know Mike," Amy says, "from work."

Yeah...yeah, you know Mike. Tall, tan, lean and blonde..._Mike. Mike, _who has had a crush on Amy for as long as you remember. _Mike_ who blatantly flirted with Amy at a dinner party thrown at your house, while you sat sulkily in the corner downing pretentious Martinis that _Mike_ made. You hate Mike.

"Yeah, I know Mike," you say, trying to sound breezy but failing, "what's he doin' in the house?"

"Oh, the television's broke so I asked him over to fix it," she replies, ignoring your tone, "wasn't that nice of him?"

You have no idea if she's intentionally trying to wind you up or if your own mind is filling in the blanks, but something in your gut is stirring. You don't like this, feel like another man is moving into your territory and the thought fills you with dread. You feel powerless and you can feel the dull prickle of heat in your face as the blood in your body pumps ferociously through you. You part your lips, try to form words, but you realize with complete hopelessness that there's nothing you can say. What can you possibly do? Accuse her of cheating when she has every reason to believe it of you? You're a fucking hypocrite and you know it...so you say nothing.

"Yeah," you sigh, defeated, "dead nice."

You hear the sound of Pauline in the background, her distinct laugh that sounds like Hell's foghorn that she inherited from you, and your body freezes still. You hear Mike talking to her. You feel like a stranger is coming in and taking your place. You try to tell yourself to relax, that you're jumping to conclusions, but you can't stop the doubt from creeping into your mind. You tell yourself Amy would never do something like that...but you can't convince yourself it's the truth. Not after everything you've put her through; how you've treated her.

"OK Ste, I'm going to have to go," she says, "thing's are hectic over here. Speak to you soon though, yeah?"

You feel like saying something, anything to keep her on the line, but you can't. So you reluctantly reply,

"Yeah...bye."

She hangs up and the dead line leaves you feeling hollow and empty. You keep the phone to your ear for minutes afterwards, listening to the silence as if it's the only company you have left. Then slowly, painfully, you take the phone from your ear and set it down on the bed. You sit in the silence of the room, the setting sun casting shadows over the walls and on the floor.

You look out the window at the blue, evening sky and slowly close your eyes.


	13. Chapter 13

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 13**

You stay in your room until the sky outside turns black, speckled with stars. The moonlight sifts through the window and casts a glow onto your sprawled form as you lie on the bed, arms resting behind your head on the pillows. You stare at the ceiling as thoughts of Amy and Mike swirl through your mind, making your skin itch. You trust Amy, you know you do, but something deep inside you wonders whether even a woman like Amy -someone whose only ever been loyal to you- could resist the prospect of a man like Mike. Someone who could offer her comfort and security where you could not. Someone who would be there for her...the thought sends a chill through you.

You immediately pull yourself from the bed and sit up, long legs kicked out onto the floor. You pull your hands down over your face then quickly stand to your feet and grab your coat and keys. You need to get out of here.

You decide to take a walk down by the Liffy river to gather your thoughts. The river always has a way of calming you when you visit Dublin- ebbing away your stresses until you feel you don't have to worry anymore. There's something about the way the water looks, gently rocking in waves under the lights of the city, that makes you feel at peace.

You walk along the path by the water and trail your hand along the rails as you walk. You finally stop at a point near the middle of the river and slowly turn and lean your arms on the barricade. You watch as the water bobs underneath you, ignoring the shuffle of passers-by as they shift and push behind you. You feel like you're the only person here.

You wait at this point for God knows how long. You aren't keeping track. All you can think about is Amy at home, Mike probably still there, and a fire burns in your belly. Your knuckles are white as your fingers dig into the railing beneath your hands, cold and rough against the freezing night air. Your eyes are focused on the water, never deviating, but your thoughts are going a million miles an hour. Sometimes you wish you could shut off your brain and never have to hear another word from it again.

As time goes by, you vaguely notice that the surrounding area has become less congested. The quiet mumble of pedestrians sauntering past diminishes and suddenly you feel isolated in the middle of Dublin city. You look around with wide eyes and parted lips as you take in the buildings and architecture. It's only now, at times like this when you're alone with your thoughts, that you truly appreciate the city. Everything here feels like something from a dream...

You hear a noise behind you and quickly turn your head. A man steps up to you and stands beside you, black leather coat slung over his long body. He folds his arms over the railing and looks down at the water, head low and eyes focused on the moving ripples. Your heart hammers in your chest at the sight of him and slowly, without a word, you turn and copy his stance. Your breath is caught in your throat and something in you wants to push him away, but then you think of Amy and you wonder what's the point...what are you fighting for? What are you resisting?

"What is it with you, yeah?" you finally mutter, voice low and venomous.

"What do ye mean?" he asks.

You're quiet for a moment and close your eyes against the soft lilt of his voice. You look down at your hands and notice that they're shaking. You tuck them under your arms and look out over the water, trying to calm your breaths. You hate that he has this affect on you.

"Why are you always around?" you ask, almost desperately, "why is it that you're always there? Popping up everywhere...everywhere I turn."

The Irishman slowly turns his head and looks at you with two deep, blue eyes. He's so close you can see the tiny grains of hair from his shaven face, contrasted with the long strands of his moustache. You can't help yourself...you look down at his mouth. When you catch yourself doing it, you look away.

"I could ask you the same thing," he replies, coolly. Then, after a moment, he casually adds, "...or who knows, maybe it's fate."

You roll your eyes and let out a snort as soon as the words leave his mouth.

"Didn't take you to be such a sap," you reply, angrily."I told you I didn't believe in any of that bullshit,"

"I know," you can practically hear the smirk in his voice, "that's why I said it."

You look at him with irritation gnawing like a wild animal in your gut and you know he's trying to wind you up. Trying to press your buttons until you lash out at him...anything to get a reaction from you. However, you can't find the patience for him tonight, so you simply shake your head and turn away. You both stand quietly for the longest time, staring out at the water while the silence ghosts between you like a wave. The tension in the air feels palpable and, with every shift he makes beside you, he brushes your arms with his. Every time you try to pull away, it feels like you're only moving closer. Finally, when the silence becomes too much to take, you snap;

"It's not true, ya know," you blurt.

He looks at you with a raised eyebrow and stands up straight, arms resting on the barrier.

"What?" he asks.

"It's not true," you lick your lips and slowly glance up at him, unable to maintain the eye contact, "what you said in the bar earlier...it's not true."

"Mm..." he looks down at the ground then up at you again, expression unreadable as ever, "what part?"

"I-I'm not," you shake your head, but you can't get out the word, so you simply repeat, "I'm not..."

He looks at you for the longest time. You feel the side of your face burning and you can't help but glance up at him, no matter how hard you try to resist. His eyes are locked on you and it's like he's trying to figure out a puzzle. When your eyes meet his, you find it impossible to look away.

"OK..." he finally responds, turning away.

You don't know what his response means and he says no more about the matter. You're fine with that. You'll deny it forever if you have to, until he gets the message. You know he's seeking you out on purpose, somehow finding out where you are and tracking you down, and you need him to know that what happened in the cellar meant nothing to you. You've told him before, but you feel the need to continue. Feel like he's still harbouring some sort of hope...but when you're both together it infuriates you how he makes you feel like you're the one harbouring the hope...

"So, what's the matter with ye then?" he asks, seemingly done with your previous conversation, "what are you doin' down here?"

You flinch at the question, blasé in it's nature but weighted in it's impact. You feel like it spawns a million answers and not one of them makes sense.

"Nothing," you respond, icily.

"Hm," he snorts out a small, mirthless laugh, "doesn't seem like nothin'. You got a face like a slapped arse."

You shake your head and smile, though it's vicious and filled with irritation. You don't respond. You feel like if you say anything it will only be venom and bile. You can't be bothered speaking to him tonight. You don't have the energy.

"Just..." you mumble, shaking your head, "just do one, Brendan."

He doesn't reply and instead you both drift into silence again, which is only broken when the Irishman coughs and turns to you;

"OK," he finally says, pushing himself from the bar and giving you a brief nod.

You raise your eyebrows at the abrupt farewell, then your stomach drops. You open your mouth to say something, but immediately close it as the Irishman turns away from you. You watch his dark figure like a shadow as he walks up the side of the river, past the Ha'penny bridge and across the street. You feel your heart beating in your chest and suddenly you feel...fucking guilty. You feel _guilty._ You snort at your own ridiculousness, as if anything you do could upset Brendan, yet the feeling lies in your gut like a disease.

You let out a long, angry sigh and hold your head in your hands. You feel like the one thing you're truly good at is pushing people away.

An hour passes as you sit and watch the soft lilt of the water. Finally, when your body feels numb against the cold, you turn and begin to walk away from the river into the town. You pull out your phone from your coat pocket and look at the empty screen with lowered eyebrows. The longer you look at it, the more you feel your heartbeat slowing inside your chest. You shove it back into your pocket, irritation prickling your skin as you think about Amy back in England. You imagine her with Mike, watching the God-damn TV that he fixed, Pauline in the middle like one big happy family. You know you're being irrational, jumping to conclusions, but the whole thing hits too close to home. You'd do anything for your family -_anything- _but you can't seem to give them the one thing Amy wants...

After pulling the phone out of your pocket and putting it back in several times, you finally pull the device from your coat and dial Amy's number. The phone's engaged. You let out a sigh and repeat the process, holding it to your ear with tense fingers. You're holding your breath and -when she once again doesn't answer- you imagine her and Mike locked together passionately between the bedsheets. Your bedsheets. Your gut fills with something raw and poisonous, the feeling of a fist around your heart, and you let out a bark of impatience as you continue to ring her and she _continues _to ignore the call.

"_God damn it!"_ you hiss, "fuck, fuck...fuck!"

A passer-by glances at you as you stand in the street, swearing at your phone. You look back and glare at the individual, who raises their eyebrows and quickly looks away with a pout of disapproval. You shake your head, ignoring them, but you can't help the thoughts of Amy and Mike swirling through your head. You feel like you're in a lifeboat and it's sinking fast. Something about it makes your bones ache. You don't trust her not to cheat, because you know that if she did you'd deserve it.

After what feels like your hundredth time calling Amy, you finally give up. You deserve her frostiness. You've given her no reason to trust you and you can't be sure if she's doing this to prolong your misery. Part of you wonders if she's doing it to see if you even care at all. Eventually, you walk back to your hotel, footsteps slow and languid. You're about to walk through the front door of the building, when suddenly you stop. You turn your head slowly to face the pub across the road and you see the silhouettes of patrons through the windows. A warm glow emanates from the place and you can feel your body being pulled towards it. You're overcome with the strangest feeling in this moment, as you think back to earlier in the night when you were standing by the river with the Irishman. Once again that gnawing feeling of guilt overwhelms you. As much as you'd like to blame him for everything, you can't blame him for your own fucked up brain. You let your thoughts drift to the day before, when you ushered him out of your room, and suddenly you feel the need to apologize to the Irishman. It's not his fault that when you saw him with Vinnie you were overcome with a feeling of...

Besides, what business is it of yours what Brendan does? He doesn't owe you a thing and you expect nothing from him in return. You don't know what it is that spurs you across the street and into the pub, but your feet are walking towards the door before you have time to stop them. You don't feel like going back to an empty hotel room at the moment- not when thoughts of your family and Mike are swirling around in your head like torturous nightmares. You just need something -_someone_- familiar. The fact that your first instinct is to seek out Brendan Brady -some random guy you met on a plane- of all people, makes you quiver to the very depths of your body.

You walk up to the bar, past the pushing and shoving patrons, and ask for Brendan. The man's name falls from your lips like a verse you can't stop speaking. You watch with wide, eager eyes over the heads of people, looking out for a flash of pale skin and dark-black hair. There's a tap on your shoulder as you wait and you turn to see the sparkling, blue eyes of a young brunette lady. She asks if you've got a cigarette and you politely tell her you don't smoke. Your eyes flick back to the bar, thinking the conversation's over, and your hands fidget by your sides as a nervous buzz echoes through your system. _Where is he? _

You feel another tap on your shoulder and you look back at the young, brunette girl. You furrow your brow as she smiles at you and you try to feign a smile,

"Can I help you?" you ask.

"Yeah," she grins, "have I seen you here before?"

You tilt your head to the side, regarding her with a curious expression. You're not in the mood to make conversation and you wonder why this girl is bothering you so much. Why does she care if you've been here before?

"A few times," you nod, "you?"

"I come here all the time," she beams and perks up, hand resting on the table while she places her drink on the wooden counter top. You look around, trying to see if she might be with anyone who could take her away, but when you look back you notice that she seems too settled to be planning on leaving, "I love this place."

You don't care.

"Aw," you smile, "that's nice."

You're trying as hard as you can to be polite, but her presence is making you more anxious as you look around for Brendan. You don't know why, but suddenly your whole body is on edge with anticipation to see him. You feel like you need a drink. You spot the lemonade and vodka perched in the girl's manicured hand and you wonder if she'd mind;

"Sorry, can I have a sip of that?" you ask, grabbing the glass before she has time to react, "I'm dead nervous!"

"Oh," she seems startled, but quickly composes herself, "Uh, yeah sure, that's fine. Uhm...w-what are you nervous about?"

Her eyes lock on yours once again and she slowly presses her hand to the side of her face, letting her fingers glide through her hair while she looks at you with a curious half-smile.

"Meeting someone," you say absently, looking around for Brendan, "got something I have to say."

She's silent for a moment and her smile suddenly drops. She pulls her hands from her face and straightens herself, pulling her dress down while smoothing out the lines with her palms.

"Oh," she mumbles, "I see."

"Steven."

You turn your head at the sound of the familiar voice, and immediately your attention is torn from the brunette girl. Your heart jumps when you see Brendan and you watch as he steps over to you, leaning his elbows on the bar. He looks at you with hooded eyes, then over to the girl. You watch as he glances her up and down.

"Brendan," you say, "was beginning to think you were out."

"Very busy, Steven," he says, eyes still glued to the brunette, "whose your friend?"

You raise an eyebrow in confusion and look at the girl with brown hair, her pixie face screwed up as she looks at the Irishman. Her nails drum on the side of the bar as she glances from you to him in turn.

"Oh, this is..." you pause, realizing you have no idea who it is, "this is...a very _loyal_ customer of yours Brendan. She comes here all the time, apparently!"

The girl casts a disapproving glance at you, while Brendan seems more interested in the girl. He waits for her to look at him again then creaks his neck, eyes focused on her face with unwavering attention.

"What's your name?" he asks, glancing down at her shoes which are skyscraper-tall.

"Mary," she replies, folding her arms.

"Hit the road, Mary," he says, "young Steven and I need to have a chat here."

She stares at Brendan for the longest time, eyes razor sharp and cutting. Brendan returns the stare with the same intensity, and all the while you watch in confusion. Finally, the girl sighs in defeat.

"Fine," she snaps, getting up from her seat.

However, before she leaves she pulls out a piece of paper and a pen from her purse and scribbles something on it.

"Here," she says, handing you the tiny note with a wink, "call me when you're done chatting to your friend."

You take the piece of paper, mind barely registering what just happened, and watch as the girl slowly moves away through the crowd. You shake your head, mystified, and slowly turn to see Brendan looking after her through clouded eyes.

"Wow," you mumble, "bit forward, in't she?"

Brendan doesn't respond at first and you wave a hand in front of his face to get his attention. You feel like he's never going to respond, until suddenly his eyes snap on you and his expression could burn holes in your flesh. He slowly pushes himself up onto his elbows until his face is almost in yours over the bar, teeth flashing dangerously under his lips as he snaps;

"Bit of a hypocrite now, Steven, ain't ye?"

You feel paralysed as you look into his wide, blue eyes. Your heart is beating fast and you can feel the flutter of your pulse racing underneath your shirt collar. You swallow and you wonder if the Irishman can see it -can smell the fear. What on Earth is he t_alking_ about?

"What?" you ask, brow furrowed, "How am I a hypocrite?"

"Don't play dumb, Steven," he snaps, voice barely above a menacing whisper.

You shake your head, genuinely confused. You feel like you've missed something along the way and the Irishman is unwilling to fill you in on the missing details. He pulls himself from the bar and turns away, hiding his face from you. When he turns back, he's the picture of composed. However, there's a sinister undercurrent to his expression as he looks up at you, eyes sparkling with rage and something else undefinable.

"I don't know what you're on about," you babble, confused, "I just came here to talk to ya."

"Yeah, whole lot of talking yer doin', Steven," he says, voice lacklustre and deceptively emotionless, "have fun talking to _Mary_, did ye?"

You turn your head and look in the direction of where the brunette girl exited. Your top lip pulls back into a sneer as you suddenly realize what he's talking about;

"What, her?" you point your thumb back, "she's just some random girl who gave me her number, I don't even know her!"

You're getting defensive now- testy. You feel like he's accusing you of something with his tone and the thought makes you furious, especially in light of what's been racing through your mind all night.

"Girls don't just give out numbers to random blokes, Steven," he whispers, tongue like silver on silk, "you're giving me hassle about 'poor Douglas' one night and then you're picking up girls phone numbers the next, when you've got a wife and little one at home?"

Confusion and irritation wells in your stomach.

"Look, you've got the wrong idea!" you argue, "I don't know her, she just started talking to me. I don't even want this!"

You take the piece of paper with the phone number, hold it up and tear it to pieces in front of his eyes. He silently watches, lights of the pub flickering over his face, as the fragments fall to the table. There's silence between you and you briefly wonder if this is how the Irishman felt yesterday when you wouldn't believe his claims about Vinnie. After a moment, his eyes flicker up to you.

"Happy?" you smile, an irritated tweak of the lips.

You both look at each other for an extended moment and suddenly you feel uncomfortable. Your lips drop and you turn your head away. You came here to apologize and that's all. Nothing more.

"What brings you here, Steven?" Brendan asks, eyes glinting in the light as he looks at you.

"Uh," you mumble, suddenly aware of the many people surrounding you both, "d'ya mind if we go somewhere quiet?"

He raises an eyebrow at you and suddenly you blush at how that must have sounded. You furrow your brow, angry with yourself for not selecting your words more carefully, then quickly add,

"Like to a corner of the pub or something?"

He looks at you with dark eyes then finally stands straight and nods his head to the right,

"We can go to the staff room," he says, "follow me."

"_No_," you blurt, and he freezes mid-step, "Uh...no, it's all right, we can just talk here."

At that moment an uproarious bout of cheers erupts from behind you and you jump. You look behind you and see a group of middle-aged men, all laughing and hollering as one of their friend's downs a pint of Guinness in one sitting. The sound of laughter, chortling and clinking glasses pollutes the air and you can barely hear yourself think, let alone carry out a conversation. You look back at Brendan and you feel your shoulders fall in defeat. He raises an eyebrow at you.

"Bit loud for talkin'," he says, eyes fixed on yours.

You let out a sigh when you realize he's right.

You follow the older man as he walks around the counter and through the crowd, towards his office. You feel a pump of annoyance course through your body as you remember Vinnie, pressed up against the Irishman like some sort of predator from a child's nightmare. You reluctantly walk in and your eyes flick to the corner where you saw them. You bite down the venom and slowly walk over and take a seat opposite his desk. Brendan walks over and stands in front of you, thighs pressed back against the edge of the desk as he folds his arms.

"So," he breathes, heavily through his nostrils, "you wanted to talk?"

"Yeah," you say, licking your lips "I just...I just wanted to say sorry."

You can't look at him when you say it, but you can tell by the silence of the room that he wasn't expecting it. You chance a brief glance at him, but his face is stoic, never giving away a hint of anything.

"You're sorry?" he repeats.

"Yeah..."

"For what?" he shrugs.

"I don't know," you jut out your mouth, suddenly regretting the decision as you fumble and fidget, "just am...ya know, for everything...the Vinnie stuff..."

"Mmm," he breathes out harshly and looks down at the ground, eyebrows raised as his eyes remain hooded, as if pondering the words.

"It's just..." you try to bite your tongue, but you can't, "I've just had a really shit night, OK? "

He's silent and you feel like an idiot, because you don't know why you feel like you can spill your guts to this man. Nothing he does gives the impression that he's a listener, and yet every time you're around him you find yourself divulging information about your life to him. You look up at him through lowered lashes and find yourself infuriated that once again, as always, he remains passive.

You're about to break the silence again, when suddenly the man speaks;

"Don't mention it," he says, short and simple.

You raise your eyebrows and look up at him. He's peering at you with this odd expression, like he's talking to a child, and it makes you feel strangely vulnerable. The way his eyes remain focused on you like you're the only person in the World. Suddenly, you're acutely aware of the emptiness of the room. The hair on the back of your neck begins to rise and the air between you both feels thick and filled, taking up all the space until you can't breathe. Your breath hitches in your throat and you swallow, unable to regulate yourself. Your body feels out of sync and you're hyper-aware of everything around you. You quickly stand to your feet and walk to the other side of the room, trying to separate yourself from the Irishman. He looks at you with raised eyebrows, but says nothing, just continues to stand back against the desk with folded arms.

"You want a drink?" the Irishman asks, stepping forward and putting his hand on the door-handle.

"Uh..." you stare at him, mouth slack, then shake your head, "no, I shouldn't."

"Great," he replies, opening the door, "I'll get ye a beer."

You stand in the office, alone and deflated as the Irishman goes to fetch you a drink. After a moment you step out through the door and watch him at the bar as he grabs two bottles of beer and pulls off the tabs. You're mesmerised by the way he walks, carrying himself in a manner that's almost predatory, and you continue to watch as he walks out from behind the bar and easily pushes past the patrons without struggle. The tide of people seems to part for him, without request. Without question. You admire it, really. Wish you could have that kind of power and authority over other people. You can't help but think that no one could deny Brendan anything.

Before you know it he's standing before you, shoving a beer into your hand while you stare at him, open-mouthed. You quickly pull yourself together, shaking the thoughts from your head while regarding him with a steely expression. He nods in the direction of the corner,

"Seat?"

He doesn't wait for an answer as he walks past you towards a small booth at the edge of the pub. You walk over and sit opposite him, your body straight and rigid in contrast to his sprawled limbs, which look too big for the space they're occupying. The Irishman lazily holds up his glass and clinks yours with the neck, then tilts the bottle back and takes a gulp. You glance at the Adam's apple of his throat as the liquid makes its way down, then you quickly lean forward and take a sip of your own. You feel warm.

"So," he says, setting down his glass with a clink, "feelin' better?"

"Hm?" you ask, brow furrowed.

"Earlier," he says, prompting you, "down by the Liffy...you looked ready to jump in."

"Oh..." you feel your shoulders tense at the question, "nothin'."

"Nothin..." he grunts, then takes a sip and peers at you with dark eyes.

You shift under the intensity of his gaze and glance around the bar. The noise is startling, but in this shadowed corner it feels like you are both secluded from the World- in a bubble no sound can penetrate. You stare at him and let your fingers graze up and down the long neck of your bottle. You sigh,

"Me and Amy..." you pause, unsure of whether to go on, "we had a fight."

He makes no movement, no sound, just looks at you with those eyes. Your body feels heavy under their weight. You shift in your seat and glance up at him,

"A fight?" the response is low in his chest.

"Yeah, a fight," you snap, "what are you, a mimic or summat?"

You stare at him with lowered eyebrows and for a moment you feel frightened that he's going to punch you. However, the stern expression on his face soon dissipates and, to your complete surprise, he smiles. It looks foreign to his lips, like a man whose face was never made for the expression, but regardless it immediately eases the tension in your body. With every laugh, your body weakens until you can barely keep yourself on the chair. What is _wrong_ with you?

"What are you laughing at?" you ask.

"You," he replies, simply, "cheeky fucker."

"Oi!" you snap, "m'not cheeky."

"You are," he replies, deadpan, "but that's OK."

You look at him and he's looking back with this strange expression. You want to tell him to stop, but you can't form the words in your mouth. You don't think you want him to stop. You take a sip of your drink.

"Yeah, well you're moody," you say.

"_Me_?" he replies, face emotionless, "that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, Steven."

You feel yourself smiling and before you know it, a snort erupts from your mouth and you're laughing at him. You feel yourself relax as chuckles fall from your mouth, leaving you feeling warm and at ease. You look up at him, smile, and you find yourself wondering if this man is as bad as you initially thought. The glint of mischievous humour in his eyes, which you used to think was laughing at your expense, now fills you with warmth.

"It's not funny," you finally sigh, "I've had a really shit day, right?"

"Mmm" he mumbles, looking down at the bottle in his hand as his fingers play with the label, "how come?"

"Just 'cause," you roll your eyes, "first I get sent home from work, then all this stuff with Amy at home...just a mess."

"...what did you fight about?" he asks, after a moment of silence.

You glance across his face and suddenly you feel uncomfortable. You're not sure you want to tell him what you and Amy talk about...it feels too personal. Guilt makes you itch under the collar because you know he's part of the issue -part of the problem- though every part of you wants to deny it. You can't pinpoint why he's an issue, this man you've barely known a week, yet slowly he is working his way into the marrow of your bones and you can't get him out.

"Just stuff," you reply, vaguely.

"Yeah, I'd be annoyed about that too," he quips, "what stuff?"

You've never met someone so persistent and you fix him with a steely gaze. He ignores you, eyes dead-set on yours, and you feel like it's a competition of who can out-glare who. You look away. He wins.

"Just _stuff_," you bite, icily.

"Elaborate," he waves his hand at you in a circular motion.

"You really can't take the hint, can you?" you finally snap, when the invasive questioning becomes too much.

You feel on edge when you're around this man -can't seem to keep up with the constant twitching and turning of your emotions. One moment you're happy, the next you're angry- you feel sick with the acute fluctuations.

"Well, that's something you should know about me, Steven," he peers at you and raises his bottle to his lips, "I never give up."

Your cheeks turn red as you watch him take a gulp. He's staring at you and you feel like a helpless lamb in the slaughterhouse. You swallow and you're afraid he's seen you -noticed the fear- and you know he has when a small grin ghosts across his features; so subtle it could be a trick of the light. You glance away and look down at the label of your beer, slowly picking the bottle up and taking a sip. You don't really feel like drinking anymore, but the motion is the only thing keeping your thoughts from wandering. Finally you speak, just to break the tension;

"We were just fighting because..." you pause, hesitating, "because she's annoyed I don't call more often."

It's kind of the truth, you think. After all, that is the reason why Amy is upset. However, you fail to mention the various underlying reasons that contribute to it. You're not a good husband, you never have been and you show your wife no attention. You don't tell him about the times she's told you she feels you don't want her, or how you've heard her cry herself to sleep. You don't tell him all that, because you can barely admit it to yourself. What kind of man does it make you? Not a man at all.

"Hm," he grunts, "sounds familiar."

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"Just reminds me of old times," he says, eyes misting at the memories, "can't say I miss it."

"How?" you ask, unable to keep up with the progress in conversation, "you're not married."

"Ha, don't have to be married to figure out how a woman works, Steven," he explains, "I've been there."

Suddenly you remember the Irishman telling you about his time with a woman. He said he only had one girlfriend, you remember. Curiosity weighs down on you heavily.

"Oh yeah," you say, "I remember you telling me about your girlfriend."

"Mm...Eileen," he mumbles, softly.

"That her name?" you ask, "d'aw."

"Yeah," he fixes you with an unamused glance, "best lookin' girl in Dublin."

"What was she doin' with you then?" you jibe, lips smiling around the mouth of your bottle as you glance at him.

"You done?" he raises his eyebrows.

You nod, but the smile still twists your lips. A silence follows, but for once it feels relaxed. You find yourself enjoying it.

"We were engaged, ye know?" he finally breaks the silence.

You raise your brow and almost spit out your drink at the statement. You're shocked. Can't imagine the Irishman waiting at the end of an aisle for someone.

"_Seriously_?" you ask.

"Yup," he nods, "I was a stupid fucker. Asked her to marry me and then tried like Hell to get out of it."

"Thought you weren't the marrying type?" you question.

"...It's hardly the same," he raises an eyebrow at you, like you're insane for even mentioning it.

"God," you mumble, brow furrowed, "so, when did you call it off?"

"Night before the Wedding," he replies, voice low.

You're on edge and you're sure you have just stumbled onto a sensitive topic. However, you can't help the warm glow in your stomach because for once it's him opening up, telling you something about his life. You don't know why, but something about it makes you feel..._special_. You feel stupid for how good it makes you feel.

"Are you serious?" you ask, aghast, "shit."

"I know," he replies, barely responding, "haven't thought about that night in years."

"What happened?"you mumble.

You can sense you're going too far, but you can't help yourself from asking. He glances at you, then down at the table.

"What d'ya think?" he snorts, "she went nuts."

"No, I mean, did you tell her it was because you were..." you trail off, barely able to say the word.

"Gay?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," your throat feels constricted, "yeah, gay."

"No," he replies, "I just cancelled our Wedding...didn't want to pile it on too thick."

"Course not," you say.

You can't imagine doing something like that. When you think back to your own Wedding day, you can't help but wonder if Brendan felt the same way; sitting in his room the night before the big event, dreading every minute on the clock.. You lick your lips and suddenly your heart is thumping in your chest,

"Sometimes..." you pause, reluctant to say it, "sometimes I feel like I maybe got married too soon."

Just like that, the words are out in the open. You've never told anyone that before, but the admittance feels like the weight of the World has left your shoulders. You glance up at him, expecting to see judgement, but his eyes are calming as you look into them. Soft, even. For some strange reason, you really feel like he understands. You can't explain it, but it's there.

"You did what you thought was right," he says finally, leaning forward in his chair like his words are only for your ears, "you were having a kid, Steven. You stood up."

You look at him and you can feel your throat constricting around the lump trapped there. His words are stirring something in you, something dormant, and suddenly you feel tears pricking your eyes The emotion is raw and seemingly comes from nowhere, but you push it deep down until not a trace of feeling is able to seep through. It's safer that way. You nod.

"Yeah," you say, "I know."

There's silence as you both sip your drink. You can feel the alcohol slowly working through your system, numbing your senses. You've only had one beer, but you've barely eaten the whole day and it's already blurring the edges of your sobriety. Your tongue is beginning to fuzz in your mouth, but you're still coherent. He offers to get you another drink and you ask for one more beer, because it's just one of those days. Besides, talking to him like this is making you forget about Amy and Mike at home.

The Irishman arrives back at the table with your second drink and you immediately take a gulp. You watch as the dark-haired man sits back in his chair, easily taking in the entire bar with his ocean-blue eyes. You cock your head to the side and regard him with a curious expression. Suddenly, you feel a question burning in the back of your mind. You look at the table and you watch as your fingers drum on the wood, nervously. You part your lips, but immediately close them in resistance. You want to ask, but you realize how it might sound and you refuse. However, after a few more mouthful's of beer you're feeling foolish. You should've eaten something. The dark corner of the pub feels way too private.

"Brendan," you finally say, eyes flickering up to him.

"Hm?" he replies.

"When did you..." you lick your lips, nervously wetting them, "h-how did you know you were..."

Your tongue feels heavy and thick in your mouth. Your body is charged. You don't want to ask him but something curious and deep inside you wants to know- _has _to know. You feel like if you know, then you can reassure yourself that it's not who you are. Not what you are.

"Spit it out, Steven," he says.

"Right, what I mean is," you stare at him, "when did you realize you were..." the question gets caught in your throat and no matter how hard you try, you just can't say the words. You try again, "when did you start having...h-how did you know you were..."

The question hangs in the air, unfinished. He lifts his eyebrow at you and you know that he understands. You watch, unable to tear your eyes from him, and he doesn't even flinch. When he responds, his words are so low and intimate that you have to strain to hear them.

"I always knew," he says, a low whisper in his throat meant only for your ears, "it's something you always know..."

Your jaw is locked in place and your mouth is set as you look at him. The dim lights of the pub are casting shadows over his face and he's looking at you with dark, shimmering eyes. Like he wants you to hear every word he's saying. Your breaths are short, barely breaths at all, and you wish you hadn't asked. He leans forward, closer to you across the table, then points his middle and index finger to your chest. You continue to look into his eyes.

"You can feel it in here," he breathes.

He holds his fingers there and your face is burning. Your skin tingles with the contact and you know you're not breathing. It takes all your physical effort to keep composed, as every sinew in your body threatens to collapse. He's close now, closer than you thought, and once again you wet your lips. This corner of the pub feels more secluded than ever.

He's so close now that you can see every hair and line on his face, half-covered by shadow. You feel yourself swallow, trying to gather whatever courage you can muster. Your body is humming. All you can see is his mouth- pink and full and _there_. You want to taste him again. You feel like you don't have control over your actions, feel like you want it so bad you can't stop yourself. You slowly lean forward, urging your body towards him. You can feel his breath on your face. You ask yourself what the Hell you're doing, but you can't fathom an answer. Your actions are automatic. Your eyes remain fixed on his lips and as you're about to close the distance between you, you hear someone call;

"_Brendan!"_

You jump. Your eyes fix on the Irishman and you can see he's just as startled. A moment later you hear the clip-clop of heels on the floor and you keep your eyes down as Brendan's sister approaches the table, blonde curls piled high on her head and pink lipstick striped on her lips. You feel flush, balmy, and your mind is racing as you swallow down the nerves in your stomach. It scares you how out of control you felt in that moment.

"Chez," he says, looking from her to you in turn, "what are you doin' here? Isn't it your night off?"

"It is! I'm heading out with some girl friends but just thought I'd pop in and see my big brother," her voice is light, jovial, and she has no idea what she's just done.

"I better go," you mutter, licking your lips, swallowing.

"Don't," he replies immediately.

You glance at him and you are both still, while Cheryl stands silently in the middle. You can feel her eyes on you, and the tense silence in the air let's you know that she realizes her mistake.

"Oh, don't go love," she says, touching your shoulder softly, "I'm just leaving now."

"No, it's fine, I've got to get up early," you smile weakly at her.

"I'll walk you home," the Irishman says, eyes fixed on yours.

"It's fine," you mumble, holding his gaze, letting him know you mean it, "really, it's fine."

Brendan looks up, eyes set on yours and glittering in the dark. For once you don't feel frightened or scared or angry, instead you feel something hollow in your chest. Something that aches to give in, when your mind refuses to let go. The Irishman looks to the ground then sits back in his seat, exhaling. He watches silently as you grab your things and slowly walk through the building, towards the exit. You walk through the heavy, wooden doors and inhale sharply as the freezing night air chills your lungs.


	14. Chapter 14

_OK, so it took me a while to figure out if I wanted to post this or not. I've been reading it over and over trying to make it perfect, but I think this is the closest I'm going to get! Anyway, in celebration of Kieron and Emmett winning best partnership at the Soap Awards I thought 'What the Hell! I'm going to post it anyway'. Once again, thanks for all reviews for the previous chapter. Seriously appreciated! _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 14**

_What the fuck were you thinking?_

You sit on the edge of your bed, head in your hands, breaths laboured as your body begins to hyperventilate at the memory. You were so close to giving in, so close you can still feel his warmth, and every sense within you is charged and tingling throughout your body like an electric pulse. You can barely remember how it happened, all you can remember is watching him talking, listening to his words and being mesmerized by the way he made you feel. You felt like you could talk to him. For a moment you saw a glimpse of the kind of person the Irishman really was beneath it all, and you liked what you saw. Liked it too much. So you leaned in and you breathed him in and you...God, you almost...

"Shit," you mutter, "_shit_..."

You try to reason with yourself that you were upset about Amy. Thoughts of her and Mike and Pauline had you _confused_, you reason, you weren't _thinking_ straight. The excuses are all familiar. All we-versed and meaningless in their repetition. You feel exhausted.

Suddenly there's a knock on your door. You raise your head, startled, and slowly peel yourself from the covers to answer. You open it and immediately find yourself gazing into the blue, hooded eyes of Brendan Brady.

"Hi," he says, voice low and eyes fixed on you.

Your heart is beating fast in your chest and you swallow. You're nervous. You don't want him to be here. However, your body feels like it's melting at the sight of him. You have no control over yourself when it comes to him, that's perfectly clear now, more-so than ever. You look him up and down with a furrowed brow and you feel your shoulders sag as your breath leaves your body.

"Hi," you reply, mouth slack.

He leans his shoulder against the door-frame, close to you, and you don't move because you feel like you can't. You ask yourself why you're not pushing him away, why you're not telling him to leave, but you feel like you don't have the energy or the right. After all, it wasn't him who made the move this time.

You swallow the ball of nerves in your stomach as you look at the Irishman. You left the pub half an hour ago and you haven't had time to fully recover from what happened there- what _almost_ happened there. You haven't had time to convince yourself that it meant nothing, and it makes you feel weak. He's caught you while your defences are low. He really is a predator.

"W-what are you doing here?" you ask, shaking your head slightly.

"Cheryl just left," he replies, as if that answers everything, "I wanted to come over...check on you, ye know."

"I told you not to follow me," you say.

"No you didn't," he replies calmly, without hesitation.

You try to remember if you did or not, but your mind draws a blank. You can't think straight when you're this close to him. You remember telling him your were fine, that you didn't need him to walk you home...but you didn't tell him not to follow you. You'd meant to, but you didn't say it...

"I just wanted to make sure you're OK," he says, "that's all."

His eyes are dark on yours and you swallow at the sight. You turn around, away from the door and back into your room. You don't have to look back to know that he's following you inside.

"Yeah," you laugh, nervously, "why wouldn't I be? Everything's fine."

You walk to the window and look out at the pub, which is now barren and dark inside. You can't help but think it's a bit early for it to be closed and you wonder if Brendan immediately came to you after locking up. The thought makes your heart throb.

"You sure?" he asks, eyebrow raised in question.

You can't stand the way he's looking at you, eyes filled with concern like you're something fragile and breakable. You look out the window again, thankful for the distraction. You wonder if he knows the extent of your weakness. Wonder if he knows that if he tried hard enough, you would eventually break.

"I'm fine," you shrug, a weary lift of the shoulders, then fold your arms, "just drop it, yeah? I'm _fine_."

He's silent and you can feel his presence behind you. The atmosphere is tense and the room feels seconds away from imploding. You feel like you're vibrating, every cell and sinew in your body poised in anticipation. You don't know what to expect and it makes you uneasy. You can't remember the last time you felt so out of your depth. You long for the simple times, before you even came here -before you met _him..._before your World was irrevocably turned upside down. If only you hadn't got on that plane to Dublin at that time, if only you'd booked that flight one hour later, then none of this would be happening.

"Well, could you tell that to my sister?" he snorts, an unamused grunt, "she won't stop fuckin' apologizing."

You turn around. Your brow is furrowed and your jaw is tense, and as you fix eyes on him he stops laughing immediately. Does he think this is some kind of laughing matter? Does he think your life is a joke? You're about to drown in the depths and he's finding the whole thing hilarious.

"That supposed to be a joke or summat?" you ask, "this isn't funny, ya know!"

"I know," he replies, face completely void of humour.

You turn back to the window, satisfied with the answer though it changes nothing. You look out at the city, eyes travelling over the vast expanse.

"Look Steven," he sighs, then repeats, "I just came here to make sure you're OK."

You laugh. A deep, bitter sound emerges from your throat and it sends a chill through you. You can't help but wonder if it's your own sanity leaving your body.

"OK?" you mumble in disbelief, turning towards him, "You want to know if I'm _OK_? Of course I'm not _OK!"_

You shake your head and watch him with shaky eyes, body trembling lightly as the weight of this situation crashes down on you forcefully.

"You don't have to feel bad, Steven," he says.

"Yes I do," you mutter, then turn to look out the window, "I do."

"_Why?"_ he asks.

You shake your head, because you can't believe he thinks it's so simple. He has no idea how hard you've worked to get what you have now. No idea how much you had to go through to overcome people's perceptions of you in the past. You were worthless, nothing, a nobody...now...now you're somebody. You worked hard to _be somebody. _You have a wife, a child, a great job and a house back in England. Over here...all you have is this. Whatever _this_ is.

"I have people who depend on me, Brendan," you try to say it, but it comes out a whisper, "a family who needs me."

He looks at you, and there's something in his eyes that scans you and tries to suss you out.

"You're scared," he finally says, eyes searching your face, "you're scared, that's all it is."

"I'm not scared," you look at him sharply, back straight and chest out.

"You are," he says.

He steps towards you and your eyes follow his movements. Your heartbeat increases and a fine sweat forms on your brow. You open your mouth, then close it and swallow. When he gets too close, you step back until your body is pressed against the window.

"Stop," you say, and he immediately does.

"Do you really want to spend your whole life running?" he says, voice silky and smooth over your ears, "is that what you want?"

You close your eyes and try to stop the words from penetrating, but each one pierces the surface. You _are_ tired of running. You think of Amy and Mike and you wonder if he's still there, in your home, with your wife and your child. Then you look at Brendan, and your eyes search his for an answer you're sure lies there. You're getting a headache from the constant thoughts bombarding your mind- the doubt, the conflict of emotions, the constant pull of your heart and your head. It's a battle your head has always won until now. You just want it all to _stop._

"I don't know what I want," you breathe, a soft and defeated sigh, "I never have."

It's the closest you've come to admittance and you search his eyes to gauge his reaction. He says nothing, but the way he looks at you says everything his words don't.

"Have you ever..." he trails off, eyes on yours.

"What?" you ask.

"Am I the first man you've...?"

It takes you a moment to catch on to what he's saying, but when you do you feel yourself flush. Everything in you wants to deny it- to tell him you don't know what he's talking about, like you've done countless other times. Instead, you close your eyes and shake your head in defeat. You're tired of running.

"I think so," you reply, words catching in your throat, "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"T-there was this one guy," you furrow your brow, because you don't know where this is coming from and you can't stop the words now that you've started, "when I was in High School...he annoyed me..."

"Mm," you look up and you see Brendan shift, folding his arms as he looks at you intently.

You lick your lips and continue.

"...he used to steal my pen all the time. Then one day he annoyed me so much we got into this...this fight. I pinned him to the ground and I were looking down at him and...nothing happened like, but..."

You trail off, because you can't say anymore. Don't want to say anymore. You know he understands and the thought makes you itchy and warm.

"You felt somethin'?" he questions you.

"No," you shake your head, irritated, then look at the ground, "no...yes...I don't know, right!"

"I know what you're goin' through, ye know," he says, and he makes it sound so simple.

You snort out an unamused laugh and shake your head.

"You don't know what I'm going through," you reply, bitterly.

"Yes, I do," he bites.

Your eyes glance over his face and for a brief moment you believe him. He sighs,

"Look Steven, I know what it's like to deal with this kind of thing."

"Yeah, but you don't know what it's like to have kids, do ya?" you reply, snappily.

You watch as his expression drops. His eyebrows lower and a darkness clouds his face, while his mouth twitches at the corners. You swallow and something in his eyes make you nervous _-concerned. _You fight the urge to ask him what's wrong, because if you do then you've just sold yourself out. Given the game away. You remember the words of the Irishman when he referred to your relationship as a game with two players. You wince at the thought that he was right. That even now, you're still holding your cards close to your chest.

"No..." the Irishman finally says, "I don't..."

"Well then you don't know," you say.

You look up at him, but the fire is gone from your eyes. You feel defeated and the slow kick that bruises your heart when you look at him acts as a cruel reminder of your feelings. He stares at you and then he takes a step forward, and you feel your body tense but you say nothing.

"I do know," he repeats, this time slow, emphasizing the words, "trust me."

He points his fingers to your chest, right on top of your heart, and stares you in the eyes. You swallow.

"Everything you're feeling," he says, "I know. I've been there."

"Right," you maintain eye contact, and your belly is burning hot with irritation and something else. Something far more deadly, "so what am I feeling then?"

You ask him as a challenge, but your voice trembles as he takes another step closer.

"You're feeling scared," he says, eyes fixed on you, "and lost...you feel like there's no one you can turn to..." you watch him closely, stomach dropping. He continues, "You feel alone...helpless...you'd do anything to stop whatever it is making you feel diseased, broken...making you want it."

You feel your muscles growing weak under the pressure of his words. Finally, he says something that makes your bones ache, "You don't feel like a man."

It's like he's reading the words from your mind. You trace his face with your eyes and your lips part, as if unable to keep them shut. Your breaths are shallow and you find yourself amazed by him. Your skin is goose-fleshed with the thought of being close to him. You think back to High School and you realize that what you felt, or thought you felt, for that boy in your class was nothing compared to this. In fact, this is like nothing you've felt before for anyone. It's electric, like touching the energy between you would be fatal. It takes your breath away.

"Am I right?" he asks.

You lick your lips and try to work up the courage to say 'no.' The word catches in your throat. He doesn't wait for you to respond before he takes a step closer, completely invading your personal space. Your back is pressed hard against the window and his body is right in front of yours, chests almost touching. You can feel his breath on your face, but you can't look him in the eye. He stands in silence, as if waiting for you to push him away, but you don't. You can't bare to. You don't have the willpower anymore and even the guilt isn't enough, because he's pushed you to breaking point. He leans forward until his lips are next to your ear,

"Am I right?" he repeats, softly.

You close your eyes tight against the words and everything in you wants to push him away, but you can't. Couldn't even if you tried. Your arms feel useless, dangling by your sides. The sound of his voice is enough to make you feel powerless in this moment. He didn't give you enough time after leaving the pub, and now you're broken and he's playing the most deadly game of all with you...making you believe he understands.

You feel something ghosting just under your ear, close to your neck. Something soft and warm- his lips. His lips are pressed to your skin and you feel a rush burning hot through your system. Your eyes spring open and you hold your breath, because the sound of your blood in your ears is too loud and you feel like you need to hear everything. You open your mouth to protest, but nothing happens. When you try to raise your arms to push him away, you're helpless. You watch as the man pulls back, face inches from yours, and your heart is beating dangerously as he leans forward and once again puts his lips close to your ear. He whispers,

"I can make you _feel_ like a man..."

You can feel his fingertips on your arm, and your body shivers at the contact. You look up at him, eyes half-lidded with lust. His touch makes your nerves tingle and it feels more oppressive than last time, more intense, and you can't deny him anything in this moment. Your chest falls and expands with short, rapid breaths.

"It's OK," he says, and you believe him, "It's OK."

You feel his hand under your chin, forcing you to look at him. You feel yourself lean in close to him until your cheek lightly grazes his skin and your nose nuzzles the spot just below his. After a moment of hesitation, you lightly graze your lips against his, so soft you barely know if they're touching. The Irishman remains still, as if afraid to startle you, and after a moment you pull back and look into his eyes. His gaze is heavy under his lowered eyelids and you can feel his warm breath on your face. You swallow, nervous, and you're tingling all over. His eyelashes flick up and you search his eyes. You feel scared, terrified...but for once you don't feel like running.

You step closer, until your chest is pushed against his, and you notice how much bigger he is than you. How much his frame dominates yours. You feel your breath leave you in a rush as you slowly lean up and softly place your lips over his again, tentatively reaching out for a taste of him. His mouth is hot against yours and once again he barely reacts, so you press your mouth harder to his because you need him to do something. Need him to touch you, guide you,_ assure_ you that it isn't wrong.

In that moment you feel him move forward, letting his arm glide around your waist, pulling your body close until you're both pressed together. The sensation makes your heart drop to your stomach. You know there's no going back now. He presses his mouth hard to yours and you open up to him, taking his top lip between yours. You feel his tongue glide into your mouth, slow and warm and deep, and you inhale sharply at the sensation. In that moment, your mind goes blank. Your nerves are burning everywhere he touches. You've lost control. You push yourself into him and though he's pressed against you, so close you can hardly breathe, you still crave him. Your hands move into his hair, touching the gelled strands, pulling him closer to you as your free hand moves to his neck. You feel goosebumps on his flesh and the thought makes you shiver. You feel his hands roaming your body, sliding down your side along your ribcage before curling around your back, pulling you closer and closer as if trying to absorb you into him. He knows exactly where to touch you.

You pull away slowly and you're both staring at each other. Your eyes are wide as you peer up into his, and you feel his hand holding tight to your shirt like he thinks you're going to run again, but you're not. You're barely thinking at all. At that moment a loud buzzing sounds through the room. You stay in his arms, but turn your head back to look in the direction of the sound. It's coming from your bedside cabinet.

It's coming from your phone...

You look back at him and he's glancing at you, telling you with his eyes not to answer it. You bite your lip and look at the ground, then slowly peel yourself from him. You walk over to the bed and pick up the phone, your heart beating fast because you already know who it is. Your breath leaves your body as you peer at the screen.

_Amy calling..._

You look at Brendan, who is poised at the side of the room with his arms folded over his broad chest. You lick your lips and remember the seconds before when you were pressed against him, and no matter how much guilt you feel you can't help but want to go back for more.

"Who is it?" he asks.

You don't reply, you just swallow nervously and then tentatively press the 'answer' button.

"Amy?" you answer, trying to sound chirpy. Like you're not guilty.

"Hey," she replies, "how are you?"

"I'm good," you reply, and you can't look at Brendan while you're talking to her, "how are things at home?"

"Fine," she says, "I'm sorry I didn't return your calls."

You can't tell if she really is sorry or not, but you suppose that she isn't. You also suppose that she intentionally didn't answer your previous calls, to teach you a lesson.

"That's OK," you lie, "you've called me now."

There's silence on the phone and you can hear her soft breaths on the line.

"What have you been up to?" she asks.

You're distracted and your mind is buzzing because you're hyper-aware of the Irishman in the room, listening to every word. Your lips still burn with his kiss. However, Amy takes your silence as meaning something else and you hear her quiet voice speak up from the other end of the line,

"Ste..." she whispers, and you swear you can hear her choking up, "I hope you know that I don't want things to be like this."

You immediately know what she means and you close your eyes. For a moment you contemplate playing ignorant, but you know that will solve nothing. You know it will make her feel stupid, and you don't want to cause her anymore pain.

"I don't either," you reply.

"You don't?"

There's something in her voice and it sounds like hope. You look to the floor, because you can't think of anything else to say. What _can_ you possibly say?

"Of course I don't," you say.

It's the truth. You don't want things to be like this between you both. You don't want to avoid her phone calls or feel this lump of guilt in your throat when you speak to her. You risk a glance at the Irishman and your eyes glide over him as you watch him standing by the window, eyes peering out over Dublin city. You swallow and your lips part. You don't hear Amy when she calls your name.

"_Ste_," Amy says, "are you listening to me?"

"What?" you shake your head from your thoughts.

"Did you hear what I said?" she asks.

"Oh no, sorry sweetheart, the signal is very bad here" you lie.

"Oh," she says, then hesitantly continues, "I was just saying about my friend at work..."

"Yeah?"

"Well, her and her husband have been going through something lately...she was saying they've started marriage counselling..."

You swallow and your heart races, because you immediately know where she's going with this conversation and you know that you don't want to go there with her. Your eyes move rapidly back and forth, searching for excuses to get out of this, but you can't think of anything so you're forced to listen.

"I was thinking it would be perfect for us, Ste," she says, and you can hear the plea in her voice, "we need help."

"Amy," you reply, after a moment of silence, "are you sure we need to do that? Isn't there something else we could do?"

You already know the answer, because you know that nothing she tries will work. Nothing either of your try to do will save this marriage, because it was dead before it even begun- from the moment you said 'I do.'

"Nothing else _has_ worked," she replies, "you know that."

You shake your head and open your mouth to protest, but nothing comes. You sigh and whisper,

"I know."

"I'm not ready to give up on us," she says, "are you?"

You're not breathing and the question hangs in the air. You're not ready to give up. You're not sure you ever will be. For Amy, this is about saving a marriage, but for you it's so much more than that. If you let go of Amy, you let go of everything. You're frightened of losing everything you've ever known for something that endlessly confuses you. However, when you look over at the Irishman a voice in your head urges you not to accept her offer...but you're a weak man, and the guilt weighs heavily on your conscience. You feel like you've disappointed her so much that you owe her this.

"No," you say, "I'm not."

You can hear her sigh and you recognise the sound as relief. You envy her, because the thing that brings her joy is making you miserable.

"I'm so glad," she breathes, "I miss you."

"Miss you too," you reply, quietly.

"Pauline misses you too."

You close your eyes and hold your breath when Amy puts your daughter on the phone. She laughs down the mouthpiece and prattles on about her day, not fully understanding what a phone conversation is at her age. You hear Amy urge her to say something, and your heart aches when she says _love you, Daddy._ You say it back, all the while aware of Brendan's eyes burning into the back of your neck. Amy comes back on the phone and you let out a shaky breath.

"Sorry about that, she just ate a chocolate bar and she's on a sugar high," she laughs, and it's the first time you've heard her laugh in forever, "I can't wait until you come home. These two days can't go fast enough."

"I know," you smile weakly, but the thought of leaving in two days sends a dull ache through you, "I'll see you both soon."

"Then when you get back, we can start becoming a proper family again," you can hear her smile at the thought.

"Yeah," you choke out a laugh, because if you don't then you fear you might cry, "of course."

"Bye Ste. I love you."

"Bye...love you."

You hang up and keep your gaze fixed to the floor. You can feel Brendan's eyes on you. Less than five minutes ago you were locked to him, barely able to think of your actions, and now one phone call has torn your World apart again. You can't bare to look at him. Looking at him only reminds you of your own feelings.

"That the missus?" he asks, though he knows the answer.

You don't reply, because you can't bring yourself to. You feel ashamed, not only because you're lying to your wife but also because you've dragged this man into something that he probably has no desire to be a part of. You know the Irishman isn't innocent, but he also didn't ask for any of this. You know you can't give him what he wants, yet you're powerless against this feeling you get when you're with him. This undeniable _urge._

Brendan clears his throat and shifts from one foot to the other, arms still folded tight over his chest. He looks to the ground with lowered eyes, then back up at you with a raised eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. You can't give him one.

"You want me to go?" he asks.

You look up at him then, eyes wide. You swallow, internally battling between what you should say and what you want to say. You stare at the Irishman and his eyes are fixed intently on you, waiting for an answer. Finally, he nods his head, taking your silence as an unspoken affirmative.

"I'll go," he mumbles, turning on his heel to leave.

You hold your breath as you watch him walk across the room. Your blood is pumping through your veins and you think to yourself _let him go._ However, when his hand hits the handle of the door, you find yourself quickly stepping forward,

"Don't go!" you burst.

The sound explodes from you in a sharp eruption, startling him into stillness. He turns his head and looks at you, eyes giving away nothing. You stare at him and you can feel your hands shaking, so you press them together to still the tremors.

"What?" he asks.

"D-don't go," you repeat, licking your lips nervously.

He's looking at you like he doesn't believe you, and you know he's wondering why you're not running this time. Hell, even you're wondering why you're not running, when everything inside you wishes you could. You wish you had the willpower to run and never look back, maybe then life would be easier. Once again, you're reminded of your own weakness.

Brendan turns around slowly, placing his hands on his sides and regarding you with a serious expression.

"Why not?" he asks.

You're not sure why not. Maybe it's because you don't want to be alone. Maybe it's because the phone call with Amy has left you feeling empty and hollow...or maybe it's because spending time with the Irishman is fast becoming the only outlet you have to be completely yourself, even when being yourself is the most terrifying thing in the World to you. All you know is, you don't want him to go.

"...Please?" you whisper.

He searches your eyes slowly, gauging your expression. You feel invaded by those eyes- too intense and piercing to look at- like he can see into the deepest corners of your mind.

"If you're sure," he says.

He's giving you the option to change your mind, but you can't change your mind. You're not sure if it's even a choice anymore. You just need him here, even if it's just to talk to. Slowly, you nod.

"I'm sure."

With that, the Irishman slowly walks towards you. You remain by the window and watch as he steps in front of you, arms folded, eyes fixed to yours. You look away.

"Ye know Steven, I'm not in the business of breaking up marriages," he says.

You glance up at him. It's not his fault your marriage is broken, you want to tell him that, but instead you swallow down the fear in your throat and almost choke on it. After a moment of silence you walk away from the window and contemplate sitting on the bed, but you stop yourself and opt for sitting on a beige lounge chair situated at the corner of the room instead. The bed seems too vulnerable. Brendan remains standing, but turns to look down at you.

"It's not you," you whisper, "it's me."

The Irishman remains silent as you look down at the floor.

"What did she say?" he asks.

"S-she wants us to go to marriage counselling,"

"You want to?"

You look up at him and shake your head in confusion. You don't know what you want.

"Yes...no..." you sigh and drop your head in your hands, "I don't know. I told her I would."

"Mm," he hums, then looks to the ground, "sure that's wise?"

You look up at him sharply and a swell of irritation lines your gut. You wonder if it's because you know he's right.

"It's worth a try," you shrug.

Brendan let's out a sigh and looks away, then slides a hand through his hair. The swift movement startles you and you watch as he steps over to the bed and sits down on the edge. He looks fed up. He looks how you feel.

"So that's it?" he says, voice low, "you just go home and play happy families like none of this ever happened?"

You look down at the floor, eyebrows knotted. You want to yell at him and ask him what he thought would happen, but you bite your tongue.

"What else can I do?" you whisper.

"Tell the truth," he says, "once in your life."

You look up at him wearily and shake your head. You can't do that.

"I can't," you reply.

He sits forward on the bed and leans towards you. His elbows are on his knees and he's holding out his hands to you. His eyes are dark, fixed on yours, and he's looking at you like the next words out of his mouth are going to be the most important words you will ever hear.

"Who do you think this is helping, eh?" he asks, "Hm? Do you think it's helping Amy? Your kid? You think you can pretend forever?"

"I can change," you whisper, looking into his eyes "I've got to."

You have to, otherwise years of trying have been for nothing. When you look at him, you see pity staring back. You shift under his gaze and lean back, away from him. Away from temptation. Your heart is beating in your chest and you feel like he deserves some sort of explanation. Suddenly, the Irishman let's out a loud sigh,

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here," he says.

You lower your eyebrows and stare at him in confusion.

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"What do you think?"

You have no idea what he means, but the words make your mouth feel dry and a lump form in your throat.

"D-do you want to go?"

You look at him with wide eyes, terrified he'll say yes. He let's out a low, bitter laugh and looks at you, shaking his head like he can't believe you're for real.

"No Steven," he says it like it's obvious, "I _don't_ want to go. The only thing is I can't figure out why."

You shake your head, unable to understand what he means.

"You think this is just hard for you?" he asks, "This isn't a bunch of roses for me either, ye know!"

"Why would this be hard for you?" you ask, "at least you know who you are!"

"You think it's always been easy for me, Steven?" he asks, eyes dark on yours, "you think I just woke up one day and thought 'I'm gay, this is fucking fantastic!' It doesn't work like that."

You lower your eyebrows and look to the ground, mouth jutted out in a pout. You hear him sigh.

"Well what _did_ you do?" you ask.

He's silent, and after a moment you look up at him. You see him glancing across the room with unfocused eyes and you cough to get his attention. He looks back at you,

"Doesn't matter what I did," he mutters, low, "all that matters is what you do."

You can't help but think that his answer is a cop-out. You say nothing, using the silence as time to think. The harder you think about it, the more confused you become. You try to remember how you felt about the boy in your class, the one who annoyed you, but still you can't recall ever feeling for him what you feel now for this man in front of you. Finally, you decide to say what you've wanted to say to the Irishman for days. What you were going to say before you saw him with Vinnie. You need to get this off your chest, because if you don't then you will suffocate with the weight of it. He's the only one whose answers can bring you peace.

"I don't know why I feel like this," you mumble, voice quivering.

"I know, St-"

"You don't," you interrupt, "I don't mean it like that. I mean I don't know why I feel like _this..._"

You look at him, and his eyebrows are furrowed like he doesn't have a clue what you're talking about. You stare down at the ground, because you can't bear to look at him.

"I don't know why I feel like this...about you," you say.

He's silent and you can feel his eyes on you. You continue,

"I mean, I only met you less than a week ago...but every time you're around I feel..."

You look up at him, silently begging him to interrupt so that you don't have to say the words.

"Go on," he says.

You lick your lips.

"I feel..." you pause, "different. Like another person... "

You glance at him and you wonder if he thinks you're being ridiculous. You feel so vulnerable in this moment that one ill-thought remark from the Irishman would slice you in half.

"Does that sound stupid?" you ask.

"No," he says, "it doesn't sound stupid."

You glance up at him. His response gives you the courage to continue,

"...But at the same time, I don't feel different at all."

"Mmm..."

He's glancing at the floor, eyelids lowered thoughtfully. You can see the faint traces of a smile twitching his features. It makes your heart skip a beat.

"What?" you ask, "what are you smiling about?"

"Nothing," he shakes his head.

"No, come on," you urge, "I could do with a laugh."

He looks up at you and his smile is gone. He's serious now. It makes you nervous.

"I just know what you mean," he says.

You swallow and your neck feels like it's burning, the collar of your shirt itching against your skin. You look away, then look back, you can't keep your eyes off him. You remember his lips against yours and you touch them. When you glance up you notice he's watching you, and you immediately pull your fingers away.

"H-how do you feel?" you ask, swallowing, "about all this."

He looks at you thoughtfully, contemplating, and finally he sighs.

"I feel like I'm in the room of a bloke who gives me headaches," he says, then quietly adds, "and I'm staying because he asked me to."

Your mouth falls open slightly, eyes wide, and you shake your head to pull yourself together. After a while the silence becomes awkward and you finally gather up your courage and say,

"I'm glad you did."

"Really?" he asks, eyebrow raised.

"Really," you reply.

"Good...Good."

You stay up all night chatting to the Irishman, until the morning sun begins to peek through the blinded windows of your room. You talk about Amy and Pauline, about memories from your past and memories from his. He tells you about when he lost his 'straight' virginity to a girl in High School called Renee Walters and you joke that she must have been a really bad lay. There's an easiness in talking to him and at one point you even move to sit beside him on the bed, without thinking about the potential risks such a move might bring. He watches as you lie back on the cushions, head propped up lazily on your hand as you tell him about the time you got kicked out of class for fighting. He tells you you're _scruffy_ and you grin at the word. You ask if he was good at school and he replies that he was a _star pupil._ You scoff at the obvious lie.

"Come on," you say, poking his arm with your foot as he remains seated at the edge of the bed, "I bet you were a little thug."

"You have no idea."

"What'd you do?" you ask, intrigued, "come on, I told you about my school days!"

"Steven, I was kicked out of school all the time," he sighs, "we'll be here all night if I tell you everything."

You look out the window at the morning sky and raise your eyebrows,

"You're too late," you nod, "we've already talked all night."

"Shit," he mumbles, "what time is it?"

You look at your bedside clock,

"It's 5 o'clock in the morning," you groan, "I have to be up for work in three hours."

"Me too," he grunts, "better go home and get some sleep."

He stands to his feet and picks up his coat from the bed. You watch him with wide eyes, stomach dropping as he moves around, collecting his things. You open your mouth, then close it hesitantly. You feel like you're treading too close to the line, but your willpower is only so strong.

"Y-you could sleep here..." you mumble.

He stops moving and looks at you, eyes dark in the early morning shadow of the room. You swallow and you know immediately what he's thinking, but that's not what you want. You just want him to stay. To feel like this is normal, just for one night. You're scared of what you might think if he leaves - scared of _over-thinking – _and you can't resist the easiness you feel around him.

"I can sleep on the lounge chair," you nod towards it.

He looks at his coat, clutched in his hands, then shakes his head and grunts,

"You don't have to sleep on the chair, Steven," he says, putting his coat on the arm of the seat, "I'll sleep on the chair."

You don't want him to sleep on the chair.

"Y-you can sleep in the bed," you blurt, trying to get the words out before your courage fades, "we both can...just for tonight. Just because it's almost morning and you have work."

The excuse is feeble, but the Irishman nods and moves towards the bed. However, after a few steps forward, he stops.

"I won't touch ye," he assures you.

He's uttering the unspoken and the tension makes you swallow a lump in your throat. You look at him with wide eyes.

"I know," you nod.

With that, Brendan slowly walks around the side of the bed and steps in with his long legs. You watch as he nestles his back into the cushions, grinding down into the pillows with the grace of a wild animal. You watch as the dim light shines on his hair, making it look blacker than ever. He turns to you and his face is white, with dark circles under his eyes. You stare at each other and immediately you realize that you've opened a can of worms that can't be undone. You feel like you're sleeping with the Devil.

"What is it?" he asks.

You realize you've been staring too long and you immediately glance away.

"Sorry," you mutter, "you just..."

"What?"

"I just thought you reminded me of someone there," you say, "I can't put my finger on who."

"Mm," he grumbles, "really?"

"Yeah," you whisper.

"Maybe you'll remember in the morning," he mumbles, and you can tell that he wants this conversation to end so he can sleep.

"Maybe," you say, "goodnight, Brendan."

His reply is a soft snore.

You turn on the pillow and close your eyes. You try to block out the voice in your head that screams:

_What the fuck are you thinking?_

Xoxoxoxoxoxox


	15. Chapter 15

_Well I'm going to go ahead and post this. Once again I was fiddling about with it for a while but I feel like this is the closest I'm going to get to what I want. Thank you once again for Chapter 14 reviews, I love you all! _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 15**

You're holding onto his lifeless body, clutching it to you, and you're covered in blood. You can feel the sticky substance on your hands, your clothes, covering every inch of you until you feel like you're drowning in it. Sobs are erupting from your sore, tired chest and you can't stop them from pouring out of your mouth. Your body is in shock and the feeling makes you gag. You want to throw up, but then you look down at his red-covered face through tear drenched eyes and all you can feel is numbness. You ask a faceless, nameless God _Why? _And no answer comes, clarifying all you need to know about his existence.

You feel something pulling at the body in your arms and when you look up, you see a man in uniform trying to prise his form from you. Your brain can't register what's happening and in your daze you pull back, beating the man's hands with your own. He's trying to take him away from you, but no one will. No one can. You'll hold on forever if you have to. Suddenly you feel arms encircling you and they're trying to tear you from him forcefully, but no matter how hard you hold on or how loud you scream, they eventually succeed. You cry out a word -his name- and the word is barely audible through your dry, raspy sobs. You reach out for him, but he's too far now, and as they carry you down the steps of the balcony you see the man in uniform lean down and put a white cloth over his body. The sight makes you hysterical and you yell, scream, fight with all your strength against the pull of their arms, but they're too strong and you're too weak. All you can do now is scream for him, but nobody around you cares. Nobody hears.

You wake up with a start and your body is flushed with sweat. You're vaguely aware that your arms are tangled around something and when you look up with wide eyes you find yourself looking up at the pale face of the man who slept in your bed last night. You let out a sigh and wonder if he's awake, but one look at him tells you he's not. You breathe in and out, trying to keep composed, but you don't let go. The rhythm of his deep, resting breaths eases you and, in a moment of weakness, you let yourself rest your head on his chest to hear his heartbeat. It's a sound that has always soothed you. After a few moments, you pull your tangled limbs from him.

You immediately tear the covers from your body and step out of bed, needing to walk around and get the last remnants of fear from your system. You step into the bathroom and turn on the tap, then gather the pouring water into your cupped palms and splash it on your face. You breathe in and out, swallow, then look up with wide eyes at your reflection. You see fear.

You decide to get showered and dressed before the Irishman wakes up. As you step out of the steamy bathroom you find him standing beside the bed, buckling his belt up. He looks up at you as you enter and you both pause. An awkwardness descends as neither of you speak. You remember being pressed against him last night when you kissed him, before Amy phoned, and the memory makes your body tingle.

"Morning," he says, pulling his jumper out over his belt.

"Morning."

"Sleep well?" he asks, though he seems less-than-interested.

"Yeah, fine," you lie, "you?"

"So-so," he says, smiling tightly, "I'm not a good sleeper."

"Really?" you ask, intrigued, "why not?"

"No reason," he replies, but something in his tone makes you doubt his sincerity.

He walks over to you and you both stand, staring at each other for what feels like an eternity.

"I guess I should get going," he says, scratching his head with his index finger, "let you go to work."

"Yeah," you mutter, "I guess so."

You both look at each other and suddenly the space between you seems smaller, even though you can't recall him stepping closer. You hold your breath and there's a feeling in your abdomen, like moths flapping their wings against your stomach. You swallow.

"So... I'll go now," he whispers, and his eyes are glued on yours.

"Yeah..."

Neither of you move and after a few moments the Irishman takes a shaky breath in and tears his eyes away from you.

"I'll go," he says, sighing, "I'll see you soon though, yeah?"

He steps away from you before you answer and your heart drops in your chest. You furrow your eyebrows, but immediately shake yourself to regain composure. It's stupid. You're the one who doesn't want this, remember? But when you look at him you find it hard to know who is in control of your emotions.

"Bye," you say.

He turns to walk away, then pauses and looks back at you. You raise your chin slightly, wondering if he's going to say something, but instead he just sighs and walks through the door. The click of it makes you wince. You don't blame him for being hesitant, for being _confused, _because how can you expect him to be anything else when you barely even know your own thoughts?

Twenty minutes later you leave the hotel and make your way to work. As you walk, you find yourself thinking about the phone call you had with Amy the night before about marriage counselling. How could you have told her you would go through with it? Of course you want to save your marriage, you'd be a fool not to, but at the same time you can't continue denying whatever it is that makes your heart skip a beat when you see Brendan. You remember him kissing you, his lips on yours and the strands of his moustache against your top lip, and the memory sends your mind racing- entertaining ideas you'd never dreamed to entertain about a man before. You've never felt this way. Never felt like someone's very presence could make your blood burn like fire in your veins.

However, you can't help but feel apprehensive. There's so much you don't know about the Irishman. You think of him and Vinnie, the blonde who seems to show up everywhere he turns, and you remember the jealousy you felt at seeing them together. Every time you're around the brunette you wonder about their history. Then there's the warning Vinnie gave you, when he said Brendan was bad news. He told you to stay away, and you feel like you should have listened, but now it's too late because you've tasted just enough of him to crave more. You can't turn back now, you know that, because you've walked too far into Hell's mouth and now you're trapped. You can't stop thinking about the fucking kiss.

The work day drags by and the more hours that pass, the more your anxiety increases about your situation with the Irishman. At one point a co-worker tries to engage you in a conversation about the weather, and you mutter out responses like a robot before turning and walking away in the middle of it. Your thoughts are consumed by him all day and when you're not thinking about him, you're thinking about Amy. Things seemed so much easier when he was in your room the night before, when his presence almost made you forget, but now in the cold light of day you feel sick to your stomach. Once again, you tasted the forbidden fruit and it was sweeter than ever. Sweeter than the last time. It makes your blood run cold.

_You only have one day left_...

The realization makes you freeze in the middle of the office. A woman almost walks into you from behind and you feel her brush your shoulder as she quickly moves around you. _One day. _One day left and then you have to go home, back to your wife and child, and everything will go on as before. You swallow and try to tell yourself that's what you want, what you need, but inside your heart is hammering. You continue to walk back to your cubicle, and with each step you repeat a mantra in your head, telling yourself things will be easier when you get back home.

You spend the rest of your day trying to work out the final parts of your presentation to the 'Smith and West' executives the next day. However, the harder you try to concentrate on the task, the more your mind wanders. You can't help but marvel at the fact that up until last week, this presentation was the only thing you had to worry about. Now your whole life seems to be up in the air, poised dangerously, waiting to crash down on top of you. At one point Danny walks in and asks how you're getting on and you read out part of your presentation to him. He says it sounds good, but gives you some pointers on how to improve it. You feel glad for the help, but you can't help but feel like the whole task is meaningless and insignificant now. You have more important things to worry about than this stupid presentation. When Danny offers to finish up the last few bits and pieces of your work, you eagerly accept.

You leave the office at around 6 o'clock in the evening and make your way to the deli at the corner of the street. However, as soon as you walk into the room, you immediately pause when you see a familiar head of blonde hair standing at the counter. His back is to you, but you feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise at the familiarity of his slight frame and pale skin. He's conversing with Doug at the counter, and when the American locks eyes with you he smiles and beckons you over.

"Long time no see!" he chirps, voice light and airy.

Vinnie turns around and his eyes darken when he spots you. You walk in, mouth tight, and slowly approach the counter. You try not to look at the blonde, but you feel his eyes burning your skin as you walk.

"Hey," you say.

"Well, what can I get ya?" he asks, voice maintaining its airiness, "I've got a whole new batch of muffins in the oven!"

"Just a coffee, thanks," you smile tightly.

"Oh come on, they're chocolate! Besides, I tried this new recipe today and I really want an _unbiased_ opinion," he looks at Vinnie from the corner of his eye, "I'll be right back!"

Doug exits the room, leaving you and Vinnie alone. Your limbs are tight and you feel trapped in a cage with a dangerous animal. Something about the blonde makes your body react. He stares at you and his stance is casual, like your presence means nothing to him, and he looks you up and down unapologetically.

"Wow..." he finally breaks the silence, "how strange..."

"What?" you snap.

"Nothing, just kind of weird," he smirks, "Brendan definitely has a type, doesn't he?"

Your heart thumps in your chest and you can't believe Vinnie has the nerve, the _gall, _to bring up the Irishman when his boyfriend is in the next room.

"What?" you sneer.

"Us," he signals between you with his hand, "we could be twins."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

You shake your head, brushing away the comment, but the tremor in your voice only fuels the blonde.

"Oh right, my mistake," he feigns an apology, insincerity dripping from his lips, "I won't say anymore."

"I somehow doubt that," you mutter.

"You have an attitude," he mutters, "that's something else we've got in common."

"I don't want to have anything in common with you, right?"

Your fists are clenched. You have to restrain yourself. Something about this guy gets under your skin.

"Woah, ease up," he puts up his hands, "I'm only messing with you."

You don't trust yourself not to lash out. Your breathing is erratic and sharp. He's not worth an assault charge.

"Looks like I hit a sore spot," he smirks.

"I'm married, right?" you hiss.

"Oh really? Well that changes everything," he says sarcastically, "that means nothing. I saw the way you looked at him when you caught us in his office...sorry about that, by the way."

His tone implies he's anything but sorry.

"Yeah, well at least I'm not lurking about hoping some ex-whatever is going to give me another chance," you mutter casually, but it comes out dripping in venom.

He pauses for a moment, taking in your words, then slowly smiles;

"Are you jealous?" he asks.

"I'm not jealous," you hiss, looking at him sharply.

"It sounds like you are," his lips are curling at the corners, "I think you might be."

"I'm not fucking jealous, OK?" you snarl.

The blonde let's out a laugh and covers his mouth to muffle the sound. His eyes are shining,

"You _are!_" he laughs, "you've got it bad."

You feel your hands once again turn to fists by your side. He glances down and you know he sees them, but he says nothing.

"God, I'd pity you if you weren't so pathetic," he says, casually, "in a way it's kind of sweet. You think Brendan gives a shit about you? You think he gives a shit about anyone?"

You remain silent, try to tune out his words, but you can't help it when they sink in. Your toes curl and you feel trapped, anything you say or do will only serve to prove him right, so you listen. You're forced to listen. Every word cuts into you like a deep knife wound. The blonde leans in, close, so only you can hear his words.

"Let me just clarify this for you now...he doesn't," he whispers, "Brendan Brady does not care about anyone. You're just another little toy to him and he'll toss you aside when he's done."

You look up at him and your mouth is pulled in an angry frown, but you're hypnotised by the need to drink in every bit of information he's giving you about the Irishman.

"If he's that awful then why do you want anything to do with him?" you ask.

He looks taken aback for a moment, but quickly regains his composure by leaning an arm on the counter casually.

"Brendan and I have history," he says, and his tone is suggestive, "it's complicated...we go way back..."

You suddenly don't want to hear anymore. Don't want to hear about him and Brendan and their 'complicated history.' In fact, you realize you'd rather cut off your ear than have to listen, so instead you open your mouth and spit venom;

"You really think I'm the pathetic one?" you hiss, unable to remain quiet any longer, "I'm not the one _running after_ someone who doesn't give a shit about me!"

He looks up at you, and for a brief moment you see his eyes flicker with something. Pain. Your words have cut him and you feel a rush of ecstasy at the thought. After a moment the blonde shakes his head, composes himself, then peels his lips back in a bitter smile,

"I hate to tell you this," he says, voice low, "but yes...you are."

You both stare at each other in silence, then the door to the kitchen flies open and the American walks in with a tray of muffins in his hands.

"Right, they're still a bit under-cooked but I think they'll be OK," he says, "I'll just tell customers they're meant to have a runny centre."

"I'm not hungry," you mutter.

With a final look at the blonde, you quickly turn on your heel and storm out of the deli.

Xoxoxoxox

On your way back to the hotel, Vinnie's words play over and over in your mind. The air is icy cold around you, but the blood rushing through your body makes you feel burning hot. You assure yourself that the blonde is just a jealous, bitter ex and that his words about the Irishman can't be trusted, but something inside you squirms at the thought that he might be telling the truth. How would you know, after all? You may feel like you know Brendan well, but he's little more than a stranger. Still, the connection you feel to the man is unlike anything you've ever known, even in the short time you've been with him. You can't believe he's the kind of man Vinnie says he is.

You approach your hotel and you're about to walk in, when suddenly you see a familiar figure out of the corner of your eye. You glance over at the pub and see Brendan, and you pause immediately when you see him talking to someone...a man. He's standing close to him, hand on his shoulder, and the man is young...attractive..._blonde_. You remember Vinnie's word about Brendan having a 'type' and the thought makes you livid. You can't control yourself. Your teeth are bared and you feel like a wild animal. Is he trying to make an idiot of you? Is this what he does? Lures men to him, fucks up their minds and then cast them aside for a new model? You cringe at the thought that you're just one of many fools.

Brendan spots you from across the street and you glare at him as he pats the man on the back and starts walking towards you. You feel the urge to run, but before you can he's already standing in front of you, blocking your way;

"Steven," he says, "always a pleasure."

"What do you want?" you reply, unable to help the icy tone.

He cocks his head to the side and you can tell that he's sensed something is up.

"What's the matter?" he asks, "you sound positively..._un-sunshiney_."

"Nothing's the matter," you fold your arms.

"Could have fooled me," he grunts, "what's with the face?"

"What face?" you ask.

"That face," he nods towards you, "the face that says I should sleep with one eye open."

"I don't know what you're on about," you lie, then motion to the man standing beside the pub, "I don't want to keep you back...you look dead busy."

Brendan slowly creaks his neck to look back at the man, then turns to you and let's out a low snort of laughter.

"What?" you ask, failing to see the humour.

"Nothin'," he replies.

His nonchalance only fuels your anger and before you can stop yourself, you snap,

"Look, am I just some sort of project to you or summat?" you snap, anger taking hold of your voice-box and you can't hold back the rage, spewing like venom from your lips. Vinnie's words circle in your head like a sick recording, "just someone for you to screw with and then toss aside?"

"Hey, hey," he seems angry now and you wonder if you've went too far, "where's all this coming from? Who you been talking to?"

You swallow and shake your head. You don't want to tell him about Vinnie. Don't want to let Brendan know that the blonde's words have sunk into your skin and now you can't get them out. You wonder why you're reacting this way, but then you reprimand yourself for being so clueless. You know why you're acting this way and the word screams out at you from your mind.

"Nobody," you mutter, "it's just..."

You trail off, because you don't know what to say. Brendan looks down at you, brow furrowed, and shakes his head.

"Is this because of last night?"

You remember the kiss and the memory sends a jolt of electricity through your body, straight to your groin. When you look at his lips, it takes little effort to remember the sensation of them against yours- dominant, full and commanding. So unlike a woman's kiss that the thought makes you ache.

"I'm not," you whisper, painfully low, and shame eats your gut, "I'm not running away."

If there was any doubt before that this had gone too far, it's gone now. Every muscle in your body feels tense, ready to run, because you're not even denying it anymore. Not even trying to deny this thing that exists between you. How can you? You don't claim to know what it is, but it's there, and you can't avoid it anymore than you can avoid him.

"Prove it," he whispers, looking intensely into your eyes.

"What do you mean?" you ask, licking your lips.

"I mean," he steps forward, "take a little drive with me. I need to do a couple of things today and I could use the company...your company."

He let's the words hang in the air for a moment and you're hesitant. You glance over at the man waiting for him and Vinnie's words echo in your head. You wonder again if Brendan makes a habit of this – praying on young, vulnerable, confused men and exploiting their weaknesses. He catches you looking and says,

"If you come I'll even introduce you to my sister's boyfriend," he nods back at the blonde standing by the pub doors, "you seem to have taken an interest in him."

You look up at him and your mouth falls open. _My sister's boyfriend. _Your cheeks turn crimson with embarrassment.

"Oh..." you mumble, "sorry."

"I'm flattered ye care so much," he smirks.

"I don't," you lie, though it seems feeble.

"Hm," he grunts, "so, you up for it then? A little road trip?"

"What kind of road trip?" You ask, eyebrow raised.

"Just need to take a look at a site my Dad was thinking of buying," he says, "he wants to open up another pub so I'm going to go take a look at a place."

"Oh," you still feel hesitant, "Uh, I don't know. I've got some work to do for tomorrow and..."

You trail off, because suddenly you remember that _tomorrow_ is the last day you have here. One look at the Irishman and you can tell he's thinking the same thing, and his eyes drop. You lick your lips because suddenly something heavy has fallen into the air between you and neither of you want to address it. So instead, you simply smile and nod your head,

"OK," you reply, "sounds good."

"Good, good," he says, "car's this way, follow me, there's a good lad."

You turn and try to keep up with his long strides.

Xoxoox

You pull up outside an old, dilapidated building and you immediately scrunch up your nose at the sight. It looks old, probably one of the oldest you've seen in Dublin, and everything about it gives you the creeps. You look at Brendan, but his eyes are dark and he's just staring at it like he's not sure either of you should even be here. After a few moments of silence, he unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls himself from the car. You follow.

You both stride over to the building, you walking a couple of steps behind the Irishman the whole way. You cautiously look around to make sure no passers-by are spying on you, then follow and watch as Brendan walks around the side of the building and stops in front of an old, boarded window. You swallow as the man wrestles with a plank of rotting wood jammed in front of it, forcing it from its place, then flinging it to the side. You're not sure if you should even be here and Brendan's method of entry seems verging on the side of illegal.

"Uhm," you mumble, "shouldn't there be an estate agent or something...to show us around?"

"Waste of time," he says, "this is quicker."

"Yeah, but...aren't we trespassing?" you ask.

He looks at you and regards you with a curious expression.

"Come on, Steven," he says, eyebrow raised, "I thought you used to be bad?"

You tense at his words and suddenly you feel yourself getting defensive.

"You calling me a wuss?"

"In so many words," he shrugs.

You let out a huff of indignation then quickly stomp over to him and push him out of the way. You grab onto the ledge of the windowsill and heave yourself through the empty pane to the other side. Your feet land roughly on the old, wooden planks and dust flies up from the boards into your eyes. You cough and splutter, then dust yourself off.

"You OK?" he asks.

"Fine," you reply, "you comin' in, or what?"

"Don't be cocky, Steven," he gently scolds, then easily pulls himself through the windowsill and down onto the ground beside you.

As his foot hits the floor, he stumbles and you reach out to steady him. He looks at you, eyes dark and navy in the shadows, and you feel a jolt of warmth pass through you. You let go and immediately walk to the staircase, which is placed just metres from where you landed. He follows.

You both make your way down into the main part of the pub, and when you clamp eyes on it you can't help but wrinkle your nose at the decay of the place. The interior looks like a typical pub, with a long bar and old glasses slotted into some of the cabinets. Through the window, a curtain of light sifts its way into the dusty room and your eyes water as the floating particles drift into them.

"This place looks ancient," you mutter, walking over to the bar and running your hand along the worktop, "look at all this dust!"

As your hand hits the worktop, you feel something flash through your system. It's sharp and immediate and gone in an instant, but it makes your blood run cold. You furrow your brow and shake your head, but the feeling is gone before you even have time to place it.

"This place is weird," you mutter, "I think I've been here before. How long has it been closed?"

"All pubs look the same," Brendan mumbles, walking through the bar and over to a wide, open part of the room, "You've probably been to one in the arse-end of nowhere that looks exactly like this."

"Yeah," you nod, figuring that must be it, "can't believe this place is still standing," you walk over to an old booth and shake the chairs, which are bolted to the ground, "it's practically decaying."

"It's more than 100 years old," he mutters, "probably seen it's fair share."

"It's just sat abandoned all this time?" You ask.

"Seems like it," he replies.

"I'm surprised no one's torn it down," you mutter, and you look over to find the Irishman running his hand carefully along the bar top, "so, do you like it?"

"Mm" he mutters, tearing his hand from the counter, "not really."

"Why, what's wrong with it?" You ask, walking across the bar to the area of the room where the sun's rays still penetrate.

"Don't know," he says, "I just don't like it. Gives me the creeps."

You snort out a laugh and your eyes shine at the thought of the big, bad Irishman being scared of an old pub.

"You think the ghosts are going to get you?" You mock him, "they can't hurt you, ya know."

You bend down and pick up a piece of errand glass on the floor, which looks like it's been there for decades. You stare at the broken piece and notice that it's the splintered edge of a shot glass. You look up at Brendan, whose eyes are fixed on you. You turn the piece of glass over in your hand, then suddenly drop it when a sharp pain runs over your finger. You've cut yourself. The blood drips over your skin and you let out a hiss as the red droplets trickle to the ground.

"Hey, watch it!".

In a flash Brendan is beside you, holding your hand in his and observing the bruise with sharp, focused eyes. You watch as he gently pulls your palm towards him and looks down at your bleeding finger, then tentatively grabs a corner of his t-shirt and holds it over the wound to dab the blood away. You can hear his heavy breaths in your ear as he concentrates on the task and you imagine a bear handling a piece of fine china. You swallow.

You're not thinking about the cut anymore...

You look up at him and your heart is beating in your chest, mouth dry, pupil's blown wide and you know that there's no fighting this. He looks up, as if feeling your eyes on him, and before you have time to think your hand pulls from his and you reach up to cup his face, pulling him towards you until your mouth is pressed desperately against his.

You can't breathe in this moment. Everything is happening so fast and his hands are on your back, digging into the fabric of your coat so deeply that you can practically feel his fingertips on your skin. You capture his top lip between yours and slowly push your tongue into his mouth, savouring every inch of him. You don't feel like yourself. You've never done anything like this before, never felt a shadow before of what you feel like now. This doesn't seem like reality.

You feel his hands run across your back, down your spine, igniting every sense in you. His fingers are incessant against your skin, clawing at you as if he wants to tear your flesh open and crawl inside you. You couldn't be any closer to him, chest-to-chest, breath-to-breath, and your limbs are shaking with the intensity of this moment. You're not thinking about Amy or Pauline, or anyone or anything – it's like they don't exist. Like the World doesn't exist.

Suddenly his hands are pulling at your coat, easing it from your shoulders, and your body tingles as the the fabric falls down over your arms. You're shaking. His lips are on your neck and his hand is on your lower back, supporting you and pulling you closer at the same time. You feel goosebumps on your arms from where the air is hitting them, but you wrap them around his body and feel like you'll never be cold again. His hands are moving over you, down your sides, along your ribcage until they're resting on the curve of your ass. His lips are still on your neck and you lean into him, eyes dazed, and let him walk you back until your spine is pressed against the wall of the pub.

You feel his hands move to your thighs and, in one swift motion, he lifts you up until your legs are circled around his waist. You pull back and look into his eyes and he's looking back at you like you're one of the most amazing things he's ever seen. Nobody has ever looked at you like that before and you're intoxicated by the power of it. You crush your lips to his and he responds immediately, fingers digging into the bared skin of your abdomen as his hands move up under your shirt. You can't think of anything else but where his hands are going to go next.

He grabs the material of your shirt and you relent as he tugs it up over your head, craving access to your body. His eyes ghost over your chest and you feel embarrassed under the scrutiny, but when he looks up at you there is no sign that you have anything to be embarrassed about. With a dark look he bows his head and begins kissing your chest, burying his face into your neck, sucking on the veins like he's about to maul you. Like he's about to eat you alive.

You can't help the moan that escapes your lips under the attention he lavishes on you, and the sound causes the Irishman to growl into your skin. You reach down and begin unbuttoning his shirt with slow, shaking hands and Brendan looks up as you do, as if surprised by the action. You peer up at him, biting your lip nervously, and you see the twitch in his cheek as he reacts to the gesture. He leans forward and attaches his mouth to yours, replacing your teeth with his own; biting down gently and pulling on your lip, before fastening his mouth to yours in a deep, tantalising kiss.

As your fingers reach the bottom button, you pull his shirt open and drag it from his shoulders, watching as the Irishman tears his arms from you and tugs the material off his skin, casting it onto the floor. You look at his body with wonder, pale skin and tight muscles displayed, and you trail your hands through the soft hair on his chest. You've never been with a man this way and every part of the experience sends a guilty tremor of pleasure through you. Somewhere in your mind you realize that it's not just being with a man that makes you shiver, it's being with _this _man.

In a sharp move Brendan pulls your hands from his chest and pins them above your head, grunting loudly with the impact. Your eyes are locked on his and your legs are wound around his waist. He regards you with a curious expression and it feels like a challenge. Your heart is beating fast. You've never been this out of control before- this _dominated._

"I want you, Steven..." he whispers.

You swallow down and you see him watching the ripple of your throat. You open your mouth, panting and breathless as you peer up at him with glazed eyes. You feel lost in his gaze. He presses his lips to yours and you strain your neck to lean forward, because it's the only movement you can make while your body is trapped beneath him. You want to taste as much of him as possible. He pulls away, and the loss is heavy.

"Tell me you want me..._" _he says.

He's practically begging you, and it sends a rush of blood straight to your groin. You know he must feel it against him, trapped in the confines of your jeans where your legs wrap around his waist, but he doesn't acknowledge it. His eyes are locked on yours.

"I want you," you whisper.

Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears.

He pushes himself into you harder and his mouth is on yours in a powerful, hungry kiss. You feel his tongue slipping insistently through your lips, hot and wet and invasive. His teeth clash against yours as you frantically try to get closer and it's like he's trying to meld you both into one person. You're suddenly aware of his hands on your thighs, silently urging you to drop them, and you comply instantly. As your feet touch the ground you feel his leg between yours, his thigh pressing against the bulge in your jeans, making your brow furrow as a jolt of pleasure runs up your spine into your stomach.

He watches your every expression with dark eyes, taking in every wrinkle and pucker on your face, drinking in each movement. After a moment you feel his leg pull from your groin as his hands reach down to unbutton your jeans. Your foreheads are pressed together and his eyes are on yours as he slowly unzips you, looking out for any minuet change in expression. You keep your gaze on his and you try to hide the fact that you're terrified. He presses a chaste kiss to your lips and you can't help but think it's to reassure you.

For a brief moment you panic. Your mind tries to process what's happening, what's going on, but it can't keep up or compete with your own desire. You lick your lips and adjust your hips closer to the Irishman until your groin is near his leg and you let out a low groan as you brush yourself against him, trying to absorb whatever contact you can. You're at his mercy.

Brendan looks at you with sharp eyes and suddenly his forearm is on your chest, pinning you back into the wall,

"What's the rush, Steven?" He whispers, voice like raw silk.

You feel his free hand sliding down your stomach, stopping on the taut skin of your abdomen just above the open zip of your jeans. Your eyes flicker shut. You feel his mouth on your skin and you feel like you're dreaming.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?"

His lips move along your collar bone, slowly working their way up your neck.

"How long?"

You're not sure if you're being coherent, but you need to know the answer. He plants a lingering kiss on the fluttering pulse of your neck and pulls back,

"Since the moment I saw you..."

You have no time to reply as his hand slips into the flap of your jeans and you inhale a sharp breath as he touches you. You cling to his back as his fingers massage your hard length, stroking the skin, working you as you spasm and writhe against him. Your knees feel weak, like they're buckling, but his solid frame keeps you upright and pinned to the wall as your hands scrape down his back. You bite into his shoulder and he let's out a hiss, but his fingers don't stop. He pulls your dick free from the confines of your trousers and your breath hitches as his hand works up and down your slicked length, slowly at first, until your breath becomes laboured with the effort to hold yourself together. You pull back and press your mouth to his in a warm, wet kiss. The action causes the Irishman to pick up speed and you feel his free hand on your chest, fingers splayed, urging you back into the wall as he drops to his knees.

You look down at the man in front of you and your fingers slide through his hair. You wonder how the fuck you got here and you wonder how the fuck you're ever going to leave. A voice in your head tells you you shouldn't be doing this, but you feel like it's a voice from a different planet. A voice hidden behind a glass wall that cannot touch you in this moment.

Your mouth falls open when you feel his tongue run along your length, hot and firm on the sensitive skin, taking you up to the root. Your breaths are short and sharp as you fist your hand in his hair, trying to control the rhythm. He follows your guidance and pulls out, only to take you back in again until his nose is pressed to the hairs of your groin. He quickens the pace, tongue working you, mouth tight around the shaft as he skilfully sucks you off. Your muscles tense as you feel yourself getting closer to the edge. A moan escapes your lips and once again it doesn't sound like you. Your hips buck against him as his fingers dig into the skin of your thighs. This is nothing like with Amy. This is not awkward or clumsy. This is like nothing you've ever experienced before and somewhere in your mind you can't help but feel like he knows your own body better than you do.

"_Fuck_," you hiss, "_Jesus, please..."_

You don't know whether you're begging for release or forgiveness.

With that the Irishman takes your whole length into his mouth, then he swallows down. The ripple of his throat makes your whole body cramp and you throw your arms out in vain, trying to grab onto something -anything- nails digging into the chipped paint of the wall as you pull splinters from the wood. You release into his mouth, body constricting against him as he continues to suck every last drop from you until you feel yourself soften in his mouth. Only then does he release you, and your body shivers as the cold air invades you. You fall against him as he stands to his feet, body soaked with sweat, and your breaths are sharp as you feel him press his hand to your slack length and gently place it back into your jeans, zipping you up.

You pull back and look into his eyes, and only now is the World beginning to shift back into focus. His arms are around you and your hands are in his hair. You feel tangled up in him, moulded to him, and once again that feeling of deja vu hits you and for a brief moment everything seems to make sense. You try to hold on to the feeling, maintain the thought, but it's gone as quickly as it comes; like the answer to a problem that's on the tip of your tongue that you can never quite reach.

At that moment you hear the rustle of movement upstairs and the sound is deafening on the creaky floorboards of the old building. You tear your eyes from the Irishman and in the direction of the sound, but you see nothing. Suddenly a voice sounds from somewhere in the building and you hear a man call out,

"Is there anybody there?"

You both freeze and the illusion of secrecy has been broken as you both jolt apart and pick up your t-shirts, haphazardly throwing them back on. The Irishman grabs your hand and trails you up the stairs towards the broken window you entered through.

"Who is it?" You whisper, panic-stricken.

"The cops," he mutters, "keep quiet!"

"We know you're in here! You are not permitted to be in this building!" The voice calls again.

"_Shit," _Brendan mumbles, "follow me."

He drags you up the stairs to the window and jumps over to the other side, telling you to be quick as he hops onto the ground and watches as you put your hands on the windowsill and push yourself over. You stumble into his waiting hands as he fists his fingers around the material of your shirt, gently urging you into a run. You both sprint towards his car and the sound of a man's voice follows you, telling you _never to set foot on this property again._

You both fall into Brendan's car and the Irishman quickly starts the engine and puts his foot on the accelerator, spinning it into a U-turn before taking off down a back road and out of sight. Your breath is ragged as you both sit in silence, stars in your eyes. You look down to see that the button of your jeans is still undone. You feel your cheeks redden and suddenly the force of what you've just done falls down on you heavily. You put your hand over your face, as if trying to hide it from the man beside you, but he doesn't say a word.

You both drive in silence for what seems to be hours, neither one of you mentioning what just took place. You wonder how the fuck you could have let something like that happen, but then you mentally scold yourself for being so stupidly naïve. Of course you knew it would happen, there's been a risk all along that this could happen at any time, and you went with him regardless.

The drive home is quiet and the tension in the car is thick, filled with words that have yet to be spoken aloud. You stare out the window at the streetlights and pedestrians as they weave past in a blur of colour. You feel a panic rise within you as your body tenses up, still recovering from the heated moment you shared with the Irishman. You have no idea where that feeling within you came from, but the memory haunts and terrifies you so much that you can't breathe.

"Can you leave me home?" You ask, words choking in your throat.

"Steven-"

"Please, don't say anything. Just...leave me home."

The Irishman falls into silence and you close your eyes. You can't talk to him right now. You just need time to think and you can't do that here with him after what just happened. In fact you can barely look him in the eye. The Irishman says nothing, doesn't even try to make you talk, and you appreciate it. You can't help but wonder if he realizes now, once and for all, that you're a lost cause.

When he leaves you off at your hotel room, you risk a glance at him. He's facing forward, but slowly he turns his head towards you and regards you with a neutral expression. You hate that no matter what, he always plays his cards close to his chest.

"Thanks," you mutter, "for the lift."

"No problem, Steven," he replies.

You lick your lips, barely able to look him in the eye. You open your mouth, try to say something, but nothing comes. Eventually you turn and open the car door, pushing yourself from the vehicle. You step out onto the pavement and turn to say a final goodbye. Your mouth is dry.

"You headin' back tomorrow then?" He asks, voice void of emotion.

"Yeah..." you mutter.

"Guess this is goodbye then," he says, eyes dark on yours.

"I'll head in tomorrow and say goodbye," you motion towards the pub, "i-if ya fancy it?"

"Sure," he fixes you with an unreadable expression, "why not?"

You nod slowly, sadly. Everything in your body wants to say something to him, tell him exactly how you felt in that moment in the pub, but no sound comes out. Somewhere in your mind you realize it's a good thing you're going home. You're about to close the door, when suddenly you hear him speak;

"You're wrong, by the way," he says.

"What?" You ask, brow furrowed in confusion.

"You're not a project..."

Your eyes widen as you look at him.

"I-I'm not?"

"No," he repeats.

He turns and looks at you, eyes blank, and you sense that he's maintaining this blank expression on purpose. Your heart leaps and you try to swallow it back down, but it's in your throat and you feel like you're choking on its pulse. With a final look, you close the door of his car and head back to your hotel room.


	16. Chapter 16

_This chapter was probably the hardest to write so far. I'm not a hundred per-cent happy with it, but I feel like this is the best it's going to be. Once again, thank you for all the wonderful reviews and thank you to those still following the story. I'm honoured. Having said that, here's Ch. 16. _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 16**

You barely slept at all last night.

You were kept awake by thoughts of the Irishman dancing through your mind, making your whole body shake under the thick quilts. At one point you got up to walk around the room, tried to sort out your thoughts and make sense of them, but to no avail. The brief amount of sleep you did get was tainted with faint, flickering dreams. When you finally wake up from your restless night, the first thing you think about is Brendan Brady. You remember being in the pub, his hands over you and his mouth on you. The whole event feels like a dream in your mind, confusing and torturing you, and you have to take a moment to remember if it actually happened; but you_ know_ it did. You have no doubt of it. The shame of realizing this makes you weak. You didn't even have the fucking strength to stop him, that's how badly you wanted it.

It's only after five minutes of thinking about the Irishman that you remember what day it is. It's the day of your meeting with the _Smith and West _executives. The day you've been working towards. The day you finally get to prove yourself to your superiors. It's only half an hour later, when you're standing in front of your mirror reciting your presentation, that you realize exactly how little it matters to you anymore.

You let out a sigh and shake your head as you look into the eyes of your reflection. A stranger is staring back. You don't know who that man is and you're sure you've never met him before. He seems the same as you in every way and yet obscenely different. A man from another World.

You walk into your bedroom and gather your papers and files, ensuring everything is in its rightful place because you don't want to forget anything this time. You double-check, then triple-check, then glance at your watch...an hour to go. Just enough time to get there and get everything set up, then an hour later it will be over and..._ then you go home..._

The words hover in your head and you freeze, unable to move as your heart skips a beat in your chest. You wonder how you're ever going to get on that plane. For one crazy moment you entertain the thought of staying, of cancelling your flight and making up some excuse to Amy about why you're not going home. You tell yourself there's still work to be done, try to trick yourself into believing the lie is feasible, but you quickly shake the thought from your mind. You _have_ to go home.

You mentally scold yourself for being so weak. No matter how you feel, you know this is for the best. You _know_ it is. You remind yourself why you're doing this...for Amy and Pauline. Not everything is about you. In fact, nothing is about you, this is all for them. Besides, who knows, maybe Amy was right, maybe marriage counselling will help and make all these feelings you have go away. You convince yourself it will and find yourself excited about the prospect, but the excitement feels manic to the point of delirium. You convince yourself that marriage counselling _really is_ the answer to your problems.

Half an hour later you leave your room and make your way to the meeting. You arrive fifteen minutes early and set up the presentation, making sure everything is laid out precisely so that it runs smoothly. You let out a shaky breath and finally, after what feels like forever, three men make their way into the room; dressed in dark business blazers and stark white shirts. They all look like the same person to you, moulded together in their professionalism and clone-like in their mannerisms. They immediately intimidate you, but you plaster on a fake smile and shake them all by the hand. You know how to do this. This is something you _know. _

They take a seat and you exchange pleasantries with them for a moment, until finally the room falls into silence. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as sweat drips down your brow. You don't want to blow it. You begin your presentation and at first things are shaky -you stumble on a few of your words as you read from the power-point. You lick your lips as you look around the room at blank, expressionless faces and it triggers a fight-or-flight response in your body. There's something about the unknown in their eyes, of not knowing what they're thinking, that frightens you. You quietly compose yourself and take in a deep breath. You have control over this. This will not defeat you. You _need _this to go well, because if you can't be sure of this then you can't be sure of anything. You continue to speak, becoming more confident with every word, and after a few minutes you establish a rhythm, an easy flow, and you even relax enough to make a very pretentious joke about finances.. By the end you can tell that you have them in the palm of your hand.

When your presentation is finally finished, you stand in silence as the older men look at you with critical eyes. After a moment, one of the men breaks into a smile and tells you that he likes your idea, and you find yourself beaming as the rest agree. You've never felt more proud of yourself. As they're about to leave, they tell you that _you're going to go far in this business _and pat your shoulder. One man turns to you and says that they'll discuss your work further when you all get back to England. You pause at the words _back to England _and feel your heart drop, but you keep the smile pasted on. When the men leave the room, you glance at the clock. Only seven more hours until your flight.

You pack up your stuff and leave the room, then make your way to the deli at the corner of the street for a final cup of coffee. You feel vaguely saddened that you might not see the American again for a while and the thought makes you feel silly. You hardly know this man, so why are you getting sentimental about leaving a perfect stranger? He doesn't feel like a stranger though. His presence soothes something inside you and makes you feel like he's a -dare you say it_-_ _friend_. You don't remember the last time you felt like you had a friend.

You momentarily wonder if Vinnie is going to be there when you arrive, so you make sure to look through the glass window before you enter. No blonde. You walk in.

"Oh hi," Doug says, eyes steady on you, "feelin' better?"

"What?" You raise an eyebrow.

You watch as Doug carefully lays out some baked bread in the display counter, his eyes dancing between you and the task,

"Yesterday? You ran out of here so fast I thought you might have been feeling sick or something," he smiles, "Vinnie said you were complaining about a stomach-ache."

You flinch at his name.

You want to tell the American that his boyfriend is a lying bastard who is only using him, but you don't feel it's your place. The blonde is someone you definitely will not miss, and in a way you feel relieved that you won't have to deal with him anymore. The mystery surrounding his and Brendan's relationship has haunted you since the moment you met him, and you'll be glad when his lingering presence will no longer be an issue in your life. However, you briefly wonder if he will still be a part of the Irishman's life when you're not around to distract him, and the obvious answer sends a chill through you. You don't want to know.

You look at the American and wonder if Doug has any idea of what his boyfriend is really like, but by the starry-eyed expression on his face you guess that he doesn't. You bite your tongue. It's none of your business. Besides, you reckon the brunette will find out the truth in the end, because it always comes out eventually.

"Yeah," you nod, lips tight, "yeah, I were sick. Fine now though."

"I'm glad," he puts the last roll in the display cabinet and stands up with a smile, "coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks," you return the smile.

The brunette quickly carries out your order, movements so fast they seem like a blur, then sets the paper cup onto the counter and looks up at you with large, blue eyes. You grab it and hand him the money, which he carefully slots into the till.

"This is seriously the best coffee I've ever had," you hold up the cup and point to it with a smile, "I'm going to miss coming to this place every day."

"Why, you leaving?" He asks, eyebrows raised, "When?"

"Today," you reply,"my flight's in a couple of hours."

"Oh! Well have a safe trip home," he smiles, then light-heartedly adds, "don't forget to visit!"

"I won't," you smile, but it feels forced.

You turn and make your way to the door, footsteps heavy and reluctant because you know that you'll have to go back to your hotel and pack. You walk through the crowded streets and before you know it you're standing outside your hotel, looking up at the grand building with a twisted expression. You think about going in and walking to your room, packing away your things and checking out at reception...you could do all these things right now and have them be done, over with and out of your mind. Hell, you could go to the airport now and check-in early; you could finally be done with all the bullshit that has been warping your mind since the moment you stepped into Brendan Brady's life...but you turn your head to the bar across the street and suddenly your mind is on other matters. Matters of much more importance.

Your eyes remain fixed on the cracks and crevices of the old building and your pulse is beating hard at the thought that Brendan is over there, almost within touching distance. You want to see him, but at the same time you can't think of anything worse. You don't want to face him after what you did yesterday, what you both did...what _he_ did to you. You haven't even tried to speak to him since and your cheeks burn at the thought of doing so. How can you look him in the eye after that? How will you ever look Amy in the eye when you get home? Part of you just wants to leave and not say anything to him. You haven't known him long, you don't owe him an explanation, but then the thought of not seeing him before you go feels even more painful. You don't want to know how you'll react at having to say goodbye, but you know you have to. You know you have to get closure on this whole ordeal, even if it kills you.

You walk over to the pub and open the heavy doors for the final time. You walk in and the place is empty, and immediately you notice that the Irishman is nowhere in sight. You look over to the bar and his sister is behind it, wiping down the counter vigorously while her low-cut top strains against her impressive assets. You walk over and her eyes flick up to you, and she smiles like she knows you and immediately stops what she's doing.

"Hey love," she says pleasantly, "let me guess, you're lookin' for our Brendan?"

You shuffle uncomfortably at her straight-forwardness. You feel embarrassed that even his sister has noticed how much time you've spent around him this week.

"Is he around?" You ask.

"Sorry love, haven't seen him all day," she says, becoming distracted by a newly sighted mark on the wood panelling of the bar. She looks close and rubs at it with her towel.

"Oh," you say, heart dropping, "do you know where he is?"

"Sorry babe, he never said," she shakes her head, apologetically.

You say nothing, momentarily stunned. Your flight is in less than four hours and you may not even get to say goodbye to him. You should feel relieved, but something in your gut yearns to see him before you go. This may be the last time you get the chance. However, as the thought passes your mind, your heart clenches tight against it. _The last time. _

"Did he say anything?" You ask, trying to keep the hope from your voice, "like, if he'll be back or..."

You look at her with wide eyes and underneath it all you wonder if she hears the unspoken within your words. _Did he say anything about me?_

"No," she shakes her head, sadly, "sorry, he never said anything."

You look to the ground, open your mouth, but words don't come out. You frown and shake your head softly, because you don't get it. He knows you're leaving today, doesn't he? You're sure you mentioned it to him, sure you told him you'd be over to say goodbye, so why is he not here? You wonder if you've built this _thing_ up in your head to a ridiculous degree. Maybe the Irishman really does just see you as a temporary toy. Maybe everything he said was a lie.

"Do you want me to leave a message for you?" She asks.

"No...no, it's OK."

You turn on your heel to leave, but before you walk out the door you hear Cheryl call out to you.

"Wait!"

You look back, startled, and she's walking around the bar towards you.

"Yeah?" You reply.

"Just..." she looks awkward, "I just wanted to say sorry, y'know, for the other night..."

It takes you a moment to realize what she's talking about. You frown, face twisted in confusion, but after a moment you suddenly realize that she's apologizing for interrupting you both the night you almost kissed him in the bar. You feel embarrassed and open your mouth to tell her she has no need to apologize, but she stops you mid-sentence,

"No no, I know you two were talking about something important," she insists, "I can sense these things, I'm a bit psychic in that way."

You raise your eyebrow at her.

"We weren't, seriously," you say, "anyway it doesn't matter now, it's not important."

"OK, if you say so," she says, and you can practically see her fighting the urge to apologize again, "Brendan was a bit annoyed at me."

"He was?" You ask, suddenly intrigued.

"Oh yeah," she let's out a huff.

"Oh...sorry," you say, trying to hide your intrigue, "what did he say?"

"Oh he didn't say anything, but I could just tell," she bats the idea away with her hand, "words are not how Brendan..._channels _his emotions."

You snort out a laugh at the statement.

"Anyway," she continues, "as long as you're sure it's OK."

"I am," you smile, reassuring her.

She looks at you with a soft smile and rests her hand on her waist. After a moment of silence you shake your head and look at your watch. You're shocked at how much time has passed,

"Shit," you mutter, "sorry but I have to go, I've got a flight to catch."

"Oh, where you heading off to? Somewhere sunny?" She asks, beaming brightly.

"Uh, no," you scoff, "I wish. I'm going home, back to England."

"Oh..." her face drops, "you live in England?"

"Yeah," you reply, confused by her sudden shift in mood.

"Oh, I didn't know," she says, "and you're heading back today?"

"...yeah," you mumble, "in a few hours."

"Oh..." she pauses, then hesitantly adds, "Brendan never said anything."

You feel irritated by the comment and you don't even know why. You wonder why on Earth he _would_ say anything? What exactly has he been saying about you?

"Yeah, well why would he?" You snap.

You find yourself instantly regretting your tone towards her, because you realize she has no idea what she's involved herself in -that it's not her fault- but she's here and easy to take your frustration out on. You take in a long breath and try to keep composed, but she's looking at you like you're crazy and also like she's about to knock some manners into you.

"I don't know," she replies, eyes fixed on you, "I just thought you two were close, I suppose."

You look at her and awkwardly shuffle your feet, lost for words. You don't know why you feel so nervous, but the way she looks at you makes you wonder what she can see written in your eyes. Before you can think of anything to say, the blonde woman begins rubbing the surface of the wooden counter with long strokes, trying to get the stubborn marks out of the grain.

"So, you live in England then?" She asks, changing the subject, her tone marred by a heaviness.

"Well, don't sound so depressed," you joke, "England's not that bad."

"Sorry, I'm just surprised!" She stops rubbing and looks up at you, eyes wide, "I don't know, I just kind of thought that..."

She pauses, as if re-thinking her words.

"What?" You ask, but as you look at her you can see her thoughts projected in her eyes.

_I just thought he liked you. I just thought you liked him. I just thought, I just thought, I just thought..._

"Nothin'," she smiles, biting her tongue, "have a safe flight home, love. I'll tell Brendan you were lookin' for him."

"Don't worry about it," you shrug, "not like it matters, eh? I'll be gone in a few hours."

"I'll let him know anyway..."

You both exchange a look and even though neither of you say a word, that one look makes you feel more exposed and vulnerable than you ever have in your life. You feel like you've given away too much and what's worse is that you've given it away to someone outside of you and the Irishman, and that makes it painfully more real. Slowly you nod, then turn and walk out of the pub.

When you get inside the hotel, you immediately head upstairs towards your room, trying to keep your mind focused on packing your things and getting out as quickly as possible. You don't want to think about or over-analyse the situation, because you know that it will only lead to feelings and thoughts and emotions, none of which you have time for. You pull out your suitcase and start neatly filing your clothes into your bag, shoving everything in, filling every available space. You go into the bathroom and grab all your toiletries, but pause when you pick up a white cloth that rests on your sink. You think back to when the Irishman held it to your face and wiped the blood from your skin, and you close your eyes at the memory. You remember the way he leaned in, his breath hot on your face, and it was the first time you smelt him. He smelt of sin.

You shake your head from the thoughts and quickly walk into your room and shove everything into your bag, then close the lid and zip it up without a second thought. You can't dwell on this. Whatever exists between you and the Irishman, it was never destined to last. You tell yourself it was just a fanciful notion; a swell of displaced affection directed towards one man, because you'd repressed your feelings for so long. These feelings had to come out at some point, but now that you've gotten some of those urges out of your system, you assure yourself that you'll feel better when you get home. That the feelings will go away. You know that this isn't reality, not your reality anyway. You tell yourself that you were just caught up in the illusion of being somewhere new and different. You were swept away, but now you're going back.

You lift the bag from the bed and set it on the floor, then take a final look across the street at the pub. No sign of the Irishman. You let out a sigh and look at your watch, heart low in your chest, and you realize that you'll have to leave now if you want to get to the airport in time for your flight. You lift your bag, grab your keys and take one final look at your phone. Your stomach churns when you see no missed calls or messages. You shake your head and wonder if maybe Vinnie was right about the Irishman all along. Maybe he doesn't give a shit about anyone.

You walk out of the hotel room and down to the reception desk, where you leave your key and fill out a short customer satisfaction sheet. The brunette lady behind the counter flashes you a bright smile and asks you to remember them for next time you visit Dublin, and you can't help but wonder how far in the future that will be. Nevertheless you smile back and walk over to a set of sofas opposite the reception desk. You pull out your phone and call for a taxi, then wait patiently for it to arrive. The whole time you wait for it, you torture yourself by glancing through the wide windows in the lobby, over to the pub across the street. When you see no stir of movement, you shake yourself for being so stupid and force your eyes to the floor. They remain there until your taxi pulls up by the front door. When you walk out and step in, you don't allow yourself to look over at that God-damn bar, because you're afraid. Afraid that if you look over now, you will see him and you won't be able to leave.

As the low hum of the engine let's out a moan and the car pulls out onto the busy road, your eyes glaze as you look out the window. You barely take in the final glimpses of the streets you've called home for the past week and you try to keep your thoughts neutral as you make your way out of the town towards the airport. The taxi man makes several attempts to rouse you from your zombie-like state, but soon gives up when he realizes you're not in the mood for talking. You vaguely wonder what kind of spell Brendan Brady has you under, so much so that your mind can barely focus on anything but the fact that you didn't get to see him before leaving.

You pull out your phone to check your messages, but there's nothing, and you hate yourself for the feeling you get in your gut when you realize there's nothing. That he never cared for you. You wish you hadn't given into him in that old pub, hadn't let your iron-restraint slip, because now he's tired of you. You gave in too easily and now he's dropped you for the next clueless boy who's come along. What bothers you more is that you let him get this deep under your skin.

Then again, perhaps you should be grateful. Better you go home feeling angry with him than anything else. You feel a steely determination rise in your chest as the taxi pulls up outside the airport. You pay the taxi-man, step out onto the pavement and for once you feel like you're finally ready to go home and work on whatever remains of your marriage.

You grab your bag and carry it through the terminal, heaving it over your shoulder as you look around for your check-in desk. You can feel a knot of anxiety forming in your stomach at being in an airport and your fear of flying is kicking in again. You're even more nervous than you were on the way over, and you blame it on the Irishman. When thoughts of Brendan become too oppressive, you pull out your phone and call Amy to take your mind off him. You need to remind yourself why you're doing this. She tells you she can't wait for you to get home and you nod your head and assure her that you feel the same. You say it's been a stressful week and you can't wait for things to get back to normal. She has no idea how much you mean it.

When you finish your phone call with Amy you check-in and make your way through a double set of doors, which lead through to the security check point. As you wait in line, trapped between a poorly dressed, middle-aged man and an elderly American woman, you find yourself drifting off into a daydream as you scan the airport. You look ahead towards a line of burly men dressed in uniform, sifting through the contents of peoples bags with stoic expressions. You silently will the line to move forward.

After a moment of daydreaming, you find yourself shifting uncomfortably under a heavy weight. The weight feels large and oppressive, burning into you from all angles, and it doesn't take long for you to figure out that you're being watched. The feeling makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise. You slowly turn your head towards the mouth of the corridor and find yourself looking directly into the eyes of Brendan Brady.

He's not moving and he's not saying anything, nor is he even trying to get your attention, but you feel his presence regardless. You find it hard to imagine how anyone could _not_ feel his presence. You take in a sharp breath at the sight of him and it feels like it's been forever since you last saw him. Your body is tense under his gaze and your knuckles are white as you grab tightly to the handle of your over-night bag. Without a word, you slowly turn and push your way through the people behind you, navigating through the dense line.

You approach him and stop a few inches closer than what's comfortable. You don't ask him how he got here, or how he managed to pinpoint you in this bustling airport, because it doesn't seem important- not when you have so little time to speak. People are stirring around you both, trying to get past in a hurry, but the World feels still to you now.

"So," he finally breaks the silence, voice deceptively steady, "you're leaving then?"

"Yeah," you reply, and the word is shaky, "I am."

"OK," he nods, and his gaze falls to the ground, "well, I just came to say goodbye."

You nod, because you don't trust yourself to open your mouth. Your heart is racing, and somewhere in your mind you acknowledge the fact that he must have seriously abused the accelerator in order to get here so quickly. The thought makes you feel light-headed and intoxicated.

"So...goodbye, Steven," he says.

You stare at him, numbness seeping through your veins. This moment feels too intense -too heavy with things unspoken. Finally, you open your mouth and sputter out the only word you can think to;

"Bye..."

You watch with wide eyes as he looks at you, eyes lingering, then walks off with a final, brief nod. You watch wordlessly as he goes, leather jacket slung over his frame, through the double doors and out of sight. Slowly, the feeling comes back to your body with his absence. Your eyes remain locked where the Irishman fell out of sight, and you feel yourself panic with the loss of him.

Your legs start moving before you have a chance to think about your actions.

You walk through the corridor with hurried steps, back towards the check-in lounge. Your body is buzzing, and suddenly the bag over your arm feels too heavy, too dragging, so you drop it in a corner. You keep your eyes fixed to the Irishman's leather-clad back as he strides through the airport, panther-like in his movements, and you feel yourself catching up with him. Finally you're behind him and your hand is on his arm; you grab him and pull him over to a door at the side of the airport -a door that proclaims 'Staff Only.' You don't care about rules or boundaries anymore, because you've already broken too many for it to matter and if this is the last time you will ever see him, then rules be damned.

You push him into the dark room and fumble around for a light switch. When you find one, you turn it on and a dim bulb immediately illuminates the room, casting a fine light over what appears to be a Janitor's closet. You look up at him and his face is cast in shadows. His eyes are dark on yours, but there's no surprise in them. It's as if he expected this, as if he planned it all out...you wonder if maybe he did.

You walk up to him, achingly close in the confines of the room, and the quietness of this empty space makes you feel like your secret is safe here... as long as it's the last time.

"You should have looked for me," he says, eyes steady and calm on yours.

"I did..." you mutter, "I tried."

"Steven..."

The way he says your name feels like a feather-light touch on your skin. It sends a shiver through you, and he notices.

"How did you find me here?" You ask.

"Cheryl told me you were in," he says, "I knew I'd have a bit of a time before your flight took off."

"I-I tried to find you," You say, brow furrowed, "I didn't know where you were though, so..."

"It doesn't matter," he shakes his head and steps closer, "I'm here now."

Your eyes glance over his face and you're suddenly aware that you're not breathing. You exhale shakily and mutter,

"I-I owe you an explanation."

"You do?" He asks.

"Yes," you nod slowly, then look up into his eyes, "about yesterday..."

He inhales a deep breath and nods, eyes dark and focused, poised on your every word as if it's the word of God. You feel yourself shaking, but you dare not let him see it. You can't let him see you being weak. Finally, when the tension becomes too much, you blurt it out,

"It were a mistake, all right?" You say, barely able to look at him, "I don't know what came over me, OK, I really don't...I just wanted you to know that, y'know, so we're clear...and I'm not saying it's your fault, y'know, it's me too, I shouldn't have...shouldn't have..."

You trail off, unable to finish the sentence when your eye catches his. He's staring at you, deep in thought, and the silence feels deafening as you wait for his response. You mentally prepare yourself for whatever he has to say.

"Does your wife make you feel like this?" He asks, voice a rumble in your ears.

The question knocks you off guard, but you don't let it defeat you.

"Yes," you immediately reply, no room for thought.

He laughs at you, as if struck by the absolute lunacy of it.

"Don't lie," he grunts, "tell me this isn't what you want."

"It doesn't matter what I want," you say, simply.

"It does," he steps forward and holds your face in his hands, body tight with frustration, and his fingers are digging into your skin, "of course it does!"

You search his face frantically, eyes moving over every part in sporadic flicks. You swallow and try to summon up all your courage, then slowly you reach out and put your hand to the side of his face. You stroke your thumb along his moustache, feeling the fine hairs under the pad, and in a moment of weakness you savour it.

"But...I hardly know you," you shake your head, baffled by his urgency.

Whatever it is that exists between you and the Irishman, you know that it goes beyond reason. Beyond the realms of comprehension. You can't even begin to understand it, have heard about it only in children's fairy tales, but here it is standing in front of you and all you can think about is how much it terrifies you. How you don't want anything to do with it. In a way it feels like the closest thing to torture you will ever get, having something be so close and yet so achingly out of reach.

"You know enough..." he says.

You stand in silence, his hands settled on your face, and slowly you feel his fingers moving down, inch by inch until his hands are cupping your cheeks. You shake your head, infuriated by this thing between you both that makes it impossible to resist

You step forward and slowly press your lips to his. Your fingers slide through his hair and rest at the base of his neck, pulling him forward and into you until he can't get any closer. Immediately his hand is on your throat, responding to you, pressing your veins in a carnal and dominant hold. You open your lips and feel his tongue on yours, owning every part of your mouth as if he wants to brand it as his own. As if wanting anyone else who dares kiss you after to still taste him on your lips.

You break away and look into his eyes, foreheads pressed together, and you shake your head because you don't know how on Earth it's come to this point.

"Don't go," he says.

"I have to," you reply.

"You don't."

"I _have_ to," you insist, "this is the way it has to be."

He looks at you, eyes glittering in the dark, and slowly shakes his head,

"This isn't how this was supposed to go," he whispers, so low you're barely sure you hear the words.

A silence falls between you both and you can't help but feel a swell of irritation rise in your gut. You don't know if it's directed at him or at the unfairness of the situation.

"What do you mean?" You ask, voice laced with bitterness, "You knew I had to go back. You knew I had a family back home. Did you think I was just going to _stay?_"

His eyes are sharp on yours and a flash of anger clouds his expression.

"No...no, I knew you wouldn't stay," he says, but something in his tone unsettles you, "I knew you wouldn't because you're a coward, Steven. You're weak. You think running back home is going to solve this, make it all go away, but it won't!"

"Solve what?" You ask, dumbfounded, and now he's really gone too far, "Solve this? What is _this?_ This is nothing, all right? This whole week was just a mistake!" You can feel the anger welling in your veins, uncontrollable, and words are spewing from your mouth before you have time to think of what you're saying, "What I have back home, right, that's real!"

Even as the words leave your mouth you know it's a lie, but you have to believe it. You _have to_ if there's any chance you're going to get on your flight. What's worse is that he knows, you can see it in his eyes. He lunges forward and pins you against a wall. Your back collides with the end of a broom and you let out a huff as it digs into you.

"You know what?You're a liar," he hisses, "that's all you do Steven, isn't it? Lie and lie until you don't even know what the truth is anymore..." his eyes trace over you, "but I can see right through you..."

You stare at him and swallow, mouth dry. Your lips part as you gaze at his face...you _are_ a liar.

"Let me go..." you say, and you're not sure if you're referring to his hold on your jacket or his hold on you. After a moment, you desperately ask, "Why can't you understand that this is how it has to be?"

You notice a shift in his expression. A flash of something indecipherable ghosts through his eyes, only to disappear in an instant. You feel his grip on you weaken, then he slowly let's go of your collar and straightens the lapels of your jacket. He sniffs and rolls back his shoulders, regarding you with a blank stare, and you can't be sure but you feel like he finally gets the message...like he finally understands.

"OK," he says simply, and you feel like he's fighting to restrain himself.

You look at him and your gut is churning. You feel like you're about to throw up. A dull nausea overwhelms your senses and a heaviness in your chest weighs you to the spot. You feel something burning in your eyes, warm and wet, but you blink the evidence away and hope he doesn't see. You tell yourself this is closure, that you're finally ready to go back and be the man you're meant to be, but you can't help but feel like something is being torn from you. An emptiness remains in the space that's left.

You try to leave, but you can't help yourself from leaning up and pressing one last, lingering kiss to his mouth.

Maybe you are just a fool after all.

"That was goodbye," you mutter.

You step away quickly, before he has a chance to object, and burst out of the room. You march through throngs of people back towards security, only stopping to collect your abandoned bag on the way past. You don't know if he tries to follow you, but you don't dare look back.

As the plane pulls out towards the runway, you can't ignore the persistent ache in your heart. An ache that feels eerily familiar.

-x-x-x-x

P.S.

_As a little side-note, I now have a twitter - BeeOHare- so if anyone is interested, feel free to get in touch because I would love to have a chance to chat with all you lovely people! _


	17. Chapter 17

_OK, so I was wrong about the previous chapter being the hardest to write, because this was insanely hard to write. Still, I managed to get there in the end. Thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter and thank you for continuing to follow the story. _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 17**

_One Month Later_

You glance around the white-walled room. Everything in this place is designed to evoke feelings of comfort, from the cream-coloured walls to the soft, cushioned chair you're sitting on. However, the false security does nothing to soothe you. You can't help but wonder whose job it was to design this room, to pick the colour scheme of a place that would forever be used to piece together the ruins of unfixable things.

You tap your fingers on the arm of the chair and look over at Amy, who is sitting beside you with a tight expression and her eyes firmly placed on the woman in front of you. You peer across the desk at an older lady with white hair -_Lynn_- who is currently searching through the drawers of her desk in a frazzled manner. You want to roll your eyes as you pull out your phone and glance at the time. Ten minutes late. It's been the same thing every God-damn week.

You feel Amy's eyes on you as you flick through your phone messages and look up in time to catch her glaring at you. You let out a sigh and reluctantly tuck your phone back into your jacket pocket. At that moment the lady pulls back and sets a pile of pages on her desk, then let's out a sigh of relief whilst smiling at you and Amy over the desk.

"There we go, sorry about that!" She grins, all gleaming teeth and sincerity, "I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached."

Amy laughs politely at her joke and you make a meek attempt. You don't want to be here, both Amy and Lynn know it, but unfortunately for you that means that these past four weeks of seeing the counsellor have lead to continuous questioning as to why you're so opposed to 'marriage guidance'. You try to deny it, but it's no use. What's worse is that the counselling doesn't end when you leave this room, it follows you home as Amy constantly rambles in your ear about why you _can't open up._ Every time they urge you to talk, you feel your throat constricting more and more.

"So, Amy and Steven-"

"It's Ste," you correct her, for what seems to be the millionth time.

"Oh right, sorry, Ste," she continues, "last week I believe we discussed Amy's feelings of insecurity in the relationship..."

"That's right," Amy says, nodding her head in agreement.

"I also assigned a small homework for you both, didn't I?" Lynn searches her past notes quickly, sifting through the pages with hawk-like eyes, "I asked you to make a list of times and events that trigger your insecure feelings."

"Yes, I have it here," Amy pulls out a list, "some of them seem kind of silly..."

"There's nothing silly about it, Amy," she argues, "don't disregard your feelings. This is only a small exercise to show Ste exactly what makes you feel insecure in the relationship and show him what triggers this response."

You feel yourself tense as once again you're the object of scrutiny. You hate being the topic of discussion, but you figure it's better than being the one who has to talk. So far, in all your sessions with the counsellor, Amy has been the main focus and done all the talking until this point. You, on the other hand, have systematically avoided saying anything. Every now and again you appease them both with carefully worded responses, which sound heartfelt but really express nothing. You've perfected the art of it so much now that Amy believes you're both really making progress with these sessions, but deep inside you know that nothing has changed at all.

"OK," Amy nods, "that makes sense."

"Good! Now, I want you to turn around and face each other..." you both comply, "and I want you, Amy, to give Ste your list and I want you, Ste, to read it quietly to yourself. Then I want you both to calmly discuss the issues, because these are the core roots of the difficulties in your marriage."

You feel like screaming at the top of your lungs that none of these things could possibly be the cause of the problems in your marriage, but instead you calmly look down and read the neat cursive on the lined page Amy hands to you. It's a list of things you do that make her feel insecure, from when you refuse to open up to her, to when your turn her down in bed. The list makes your face burn hot and your stomach churn with guilt. Nothing has changed, and you wonder how many more counselling sessions you will have to sit through before anything will.

You risk a glance up at the clock on the wall of the room. Forty-five minutes left.

You sigh and continue to read the list in your hand.

Xoxoxo

When the counselling session is over, you walk with Amy out through the front doors of the building towards your car. You only half-listen as Amy talks about the session, listing off things you both need to do in order to put more effort into your marriage. You feel like telling her she doesn't need to do anything- it's you that has to change. God knows you want to.

"I think we should have a day out," she says, "spend some time together, just you and me."

"Hm?" You grunt, revealing just how much you've been listening to her.

"_Ste_," she hits your arm, "you're not even listening!"

"I am," you lie, "sorry, I was just thinking about work."

"They've really been putting the pressure on you, haven't they?" She says, sympathetically, "You think they'd ease up on you a little after giving you that promotion."

"I don't think that's how it works," your lips twitch into a flicker of a smile, "things will hopefully calm down after this week. I've got a bunch of meetings and deadlines, so I'm gonna be dead busy."

"Right," she lowers her eyebrows, "so I guess a day to ourselves is out of the question?"

You look at her and your heart constricts. Guilt settles in your stomach and you try to swallow it down, but it remains lodged there like a permanent fixture. You smile tightly,

"It's fine. I'll just have to find the time to get it all done."

Her face breaks out into a giant grin and she pulls you into a kiss. You don't know what makes you feel worse- denying her or giving her false hope.

"Brilliant! I'll get someone to take care of Pauline for the day, it shouldn't be hard. I'll ask Nancy, she loves kids!" Amy beams, practically bouncing with excitement.

"Sounds good," you say, gently pushing her from you with a soft hand, "anyway, I better go. I've got to be at work in half an hour."

"OK," she replies, still smiling.

Amy walks around the side of the car and hops into the passenger's seat, pulling her seatbelt over her small frame. You glance at her and can't help but admire how beautiful she is, and you will yourself with every fibre of your being to want her. You beg your body to react...but nothing. Not even a twinge. You shake your head and turn on the ignition, then pull out from the car park onto the road.

You leave Amy home before heading into work. You arrive ten minutes ahead of schedule and decide to pour yourself a morning coffee to ease the headache caused by your early-morning counselling session. Ever since you and Amy started seeing Lynn, you've been getting more and more headaches. You've also been suffering from severe tension, which has built up in your body over time, making your shoulders hunched and neck sore. Everything about seeing the therapist makes you feel nervous and on-edge. More than once you've felt close to breaking point; when her questions have sliced too close to the bone and you've felt yourself become agitated and explosive. You fear for your own sanity in those moments.

However, you continued to see the therapist for Amy's sake. You couldn't bare to say no, because you felt you owed her after everything you'd put her through; things she didn't even know you were guilty of and would devastate her if she ever found out about them. You remember arriving home from Dublin on the evening of your flight, with nausea, fear and a heavy feeling of loss settled in your gut. When you saw her standing at the terminal, looking out for you with a lost, doe-like expression, you took her in your arms and squeezed her until you couldn't hold on any longer. She thought you were embracing her because you missed her, but in reality it was for comfort. Comfort at losing something that felt like it made you whole. You didn't even have the energy to feel guilty for thinking of him, for wanting him, for _missing _him; you gave yourself permission for that moment of weakness. You remember being grateful for her at the time, just for being a body to throw your arms around. Underneath all the lies and complications, she still felt like your best friend.

You take a sip of your coffee and your body freezes at the memory of the Irishman.

You try to stop the image of his face from entering your mind, but before you can stop it he's there, tormenting you. Ever since you arrived home from Ireland you've tried not to think about your time there, tried not to dwell on it, but every now and again you can't help the memories from permeating your defences. You can't stop yourself from reacting to them when they do.

You never told Amy about Brendanwhen you arrived back from your trip...you were afraid the guilt would be written on your face with the mere mention of his name. Even thinking about him felt dangerous. As a result, you were forced to dodge any questions she asked about your time there -what you did, who you met- every tiny enquiry felt like a test of evasion. You kept answers vague and then over-compensated for your lack of communication by buying her gifts and showing her more affection. However, every time your lips found hers, you would think of Brendan Brady and your body would ache with need.

In the first few days after you arrived home, you grew distant from your family. You came home to be there for them, but instead you were more distant and reclusive than ever. At times you would lock yourself in your room after arriving home from work, pining for someone you barely even knew, and Amy would knock on the door but you wouldn't let her in. Instead, you told her you were sick until eventually she left you alone. You would take long walks and try to clear your head, but everything within you ached to be close to him. You tortured yourself by reliving the events from that week, over and over in your mind until you felt numb. However, the memory of the airport was the one that lingered most. Looking into his eyes and saying goodbye was a pain like no other, so sharp and intense it left you breathless. The only time you'd ever felt such pain before was in your deepest, darkest nightmares.

It affected you so much that eventually you forced yourself to stop all thoughts of him, and you did it by throwing yourself into unrelated tasks. You immediately asked Amy for the number of her friend's therapist and made arrangements for your first session. You also spent more time with Pauline, teaching her how to read and playing with her whenever you had a free moment. You came back for a reason, to fix your family, and you swore to yourself you would make your marriage work no matter what. The only way you could do that was by erasing all thoughts of the Irishman from your mind. To let him go completely.

To an extent the technique worked and eventually you stopped obsessing over the tiniest thoughts of him. ...but God it wasn't easy. One time you were in such need of a distraction that you agreed to play dress-up in one of Pauline's make-believe tea parties, just to make the thoughts of him disappear. Though, as time went on, it became easier to block him out. However, every now and again your thoughts still drift to him and you know that he's not gone; that he's still there in the shadows of your memory, a haunting spectre that follows you wherever you go. Nothing you do can erase him, but you still _try_...no matter how much in vain.

"Ste!"

You feel a hand on your shoulder and you jump, almost spilling hot coffee over your newly-ironed shirt. You turn around and find yourself face-to-face with Darren, one of the guys who works on your floor and probably the closest thing you have to a friend. Being busy at work all the time doesn't really give you much time to socialize.

"Oh, hi," you sputter.

"Sorry," he puts his hands up, "didn't mean to startle you!"

"No worries," you say.

"You ready for the meeting today?" He asks, walking around you to pour himself a cup of coffee, "I hear they've brought in the big boys upstairs to oversee it."

"Really?" You ask, heart beating, "Who told you that?"

"Danny," he says, "have you spoken to him yet?"

"No," you reply, eyebrow raised, "why, is he looking for me?"

"I think so," he says, sipping from his cup as he walks back towards the door, "he said something about making improvements on some of your ideas."

"_What?_ Again?" You shriek.

Your mouth drops open as you watch Darren take another casual sip of his coffee. This is the third time in a month that your work has failed to meet Danny's expectations and the pressure, coupled with the humiliation, is beginning to make you crack. You feel outraged and you're sure it shows on your face, but Darren doesn't register it. Darren isn't exactly as work-obsessed as you are, which is probably the only reason you're friends with him. Your heart drops into your stomach and the knot of tension in your shoulders tighten. Suddenly you feel overwhelmed and the feeling makes your heart race.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Darren continues, rousing you from your panicked state, "it's probably only small stuff."

You watch as Darren glides through the door and out of sight. You're left in the empty kitchenette, feeling crestfallen and completely out of your depth. In the back of your mind you wonder how many more times Danny will have to correct your work before he just fires you. You felt honoured when management gave you a promotion as recognition of your work in Dublin, but now the honour is weighing down around your neck, threatening to choke you.

When you finally find Danny he tells you that you're going to need to make a number of changes before he even considers presenting your ideas in the meeting. You bite your tongue as he rips your pitch to shreds, flashing pages of red-lined corrections in your face as he prattles on about _marketing_ and _viability. _All you hear is white noise. You're not cut out for this. When Danny finally finishes critiquing you and walks away, your whole body feels deflated and worn-out. You went over to Dublin to get a promotion, and now that you have it you feel like it's too much. For a moment you wonder if what you want is to move higher in the business, or to move out of the business. However, you quickly shake the thought from your mind, too anxious to even risk dwelling on it.

When the work day finally ends, you're thankful that it's over.

You make your way out of the building and head towards your car, but soon change direction and start walking towards the town centre when you realize that you're not ready to go back home to your family just yet. You've lost track of the amount of times you've done this since you arrived back in England, but the walk soothes you and you tell yourself over and over again that you're not doing it to avoid going home. You just about convince yourself it's true.

Your legs move effortlessly as your mind wanders, clouded by thoughts of the counselling session this morning. You walk through the crowded streets, paying no attention to the evening bustle, and eventually find yourself standing outside an old, rickety DIY store. You walk in slowly, heart racing as you enter, and you walk over to the gardening section and pretend to glance at the shovels. However, your eyes eventually deviate towards the true reason for your presence in this store.

He's standing at the till, eyes fixed on the tattered pages of a magazine while he casually bites into a doughnut. His hair is dark and his face is speckled with black stubble, icy blue eyes peering out from under his lashes. Watching him has become like a ritual now. Every now and again you glance up to make sure his attention is elsewhere, then, when you're confident he's not looking, you stare at him until your eyes feel like they're going to bleed. The first time you saw him you were sure it was _him_, the similarities were breathtaking, and your heart felt like it was going to explode in your chest. Since that moment you've been unable to stop yourself from coming to this store almost every day, and all you can do is stand and stare. He just looks so much like him_. _Like Brendan.

The man looks up and your heart thumps as you quickly turn your head back towards the shovels. You try to feign interest, but you can feel the man approaching and your body reacts with twitches and nervous ticks. When you sense him beside you, you feel numb,

"Hi," he says, "can I help you?"

His accent is different, you notice. This man sounds like he's from Liverpool.

"Um," you swallow, "I was just looking..."

"Are you looking for anything in particular?"

You lick your lips and try not to glance at him, because you don't know if you can handle it. Eventually, you force yourself to look. When your eyes land on his face, your heart immediately drops with disappointment. He looks nothing like him, you realize now. You've never talked to him before, but from this close you see all the differences between this man and the one you met in Dublin. Without the illusion of distance, there is no comparison...

You listen with disinterest as the man talks on about shovels, suggesting certain types for different gardens, and when he's done you politely excuse yourself. You feel like an absolute idiot.

You arrive home to find Amy cooking dinner in the kitchen and you can hear that she's talking to someone. You enter the room and give her a light kiss on the cheek, and she smiles at you with sparkling eyes.

"Yeah, so if you could take care of Pauline this week-end I would really appreciate it, Nance," Amy says, voice pinched as she frantically stirs gravy in a steaming pot, "Yeah, me and Ste were going to spend the day together."

You watch Amy in silent wonder as she multi-tasks. You don't know how she does it- how she manages to juggle a full-time job as a teacher, being around thankless pupils everyday, only to come home and take care of Pauline in the evenings. She turns around and looks at you, phone pressed between her shoulder and her ear, and motions for you to watch Pauline. You sit down at the table and smile at your daughter as she reads a magazine, wearing Amy's pearls with a smudge of red lipstick smeared across her face. You figure she must be playing 'grown-ups' today.

"Are you trying to be like Mummy?" You ask, grinning at her, "You look just like her."

She ignores you.

"What you reading there?" You ask, looking over her shoulder. You spot a picture of a well-known celebrity couple with the headline 'Splitsville' marring the image, "I knew they wouldn't last."

Pauline glances up from her magazine and regards you with an unamused look. You cower under her gaze and immediately know she takes that death-glare from her mother. Part of you wonders if her coldness towards you is your own fault in some way. You've tried to be the best father you can be, but children are perceptive. They can sense things that adults can't. Does she know your heart is not here in this house with them or that your thoughts lie elsewhere? It makes you cold. You lean back in your chair,

"Sorry," you hold up your hands in apology, "didn't mean to disturb you from your reading."

She turns her head back to the glossy rag and casually flicks over the page with sticky fingers. You can't help but think your daughter is turning into a right little madam.

"Good news!" Amy shrieks, running over to throw her arms around your shoulders as you sit, "Nancy said she can babysit this weekend!"

"Great," you reply, squeezing her arm, "what time will she be here?"

"She said in the afternoon, so we can leave once Pauline gets her lunch," she claps, "I'm excited, it's been ages since we spent some time together, just us."

"Mint," you reply.

"Oh and also," Amy leans forward so that Pauline can't hear, "Nancy said she could take her for the night..."

You feel her body press against you and the hairs on your neck stand on edge as the insinuation sinks in.

You turn to look at her as she peers at you through lowered lashes. You swallow nervously, because suddenly you feel trapped and you realise you're in a situation where it's impossible to say no. You try to think of an excuse, but nothing comes and it feels like the walls are closing in. Time ebbs on as Amy continues to look at you, and her expression twitches as you stare back blankly. You see her eyes shift and read the expression as disappointment, and the thought that you've disappointed her again kills you, so you respond in the only way that you know how;

"OK," you say, "sounds good."

You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth, but when Amy swings her arms around you and hugs you so close it makes it feel a little bit worth it. You assure yourself that it's the right thing to do. You glance at Pauline and you're sure it's the truth.

Xoxoxo

"There's food in the fridge, so help yourself to anything. Oh, also there's a list of emergency numbers if anything happens! Also, don't forget that she can't have any sweets before dinner because it'll make her hyper and she can be a nightmare when she gets like that..."

You watch with tired eyes as Amy frantically lists off various precautions that only mother's ever worry about when leaving their child. Meanwhile, Nancy looks like she's about to blow a fuse with frustration.

"It's fine, I've got everything under control," Nancy says, soothing Amy with her reassuring words, "all you two need to worry about is having a good time."

"Thanks Nance," you hear Amy sigh with relief, "we really appreciate this."

"No problem," she replies, hint of a smile on her face, "now go! I'll leave straight after Pauline finishes her lunch and take her back to mine."

You flinch when you think of the reason why Nancy is taking Pauline back to hers. You know that tonight you will have to go through with something you've avoided for so long, and the thought paralyses you with anxiety. You can't help but cringe at the ridiculousness of the thought- that you're _afraid_ to sleep with your own wife.

"OK," Amy nods tentatively, "OK, let's go Ste."

You wave to Nancy as you both walk out the door, then get into the car and pull out of the driveway. As you cruise along the road, you try to reassure Amy that Nancy is more than capable of babysitting. After half an hour you eventually see her relax, so you risk changing the conversation.

"So, where do you want to go?" You ask, suddenly realizing that neither of you have discussed what exactly this 'day out' will consist of.

"I don't know," she mutters, "we could go to dinner?"

"Bit early," you say, glancing at the clock, which reads 4:45p.m.

She pauses for a moment, deep in thought, then eventually turns to you and says,

"Well, I heard there's a fair in town today. We could go to that?"

You hate fairs, but you figure there's not much else to do, so you comply. When you arrive in town the streets are bustling and the air is filled with music. The whole place is congested and you wonder how on earth you hadn't heard that this event was happening. After what feels like hours of driving around, you eventually find a parking space just on the outskirts of town and you both walk back to the centre. The street is lined with stalls and fair-games, whilst kids walk the streets with cotton-candy and ice-creams.

"Pauline would love this!" Amy says, smile taking over her face.

You walk through the crowd, dodging and meandering through throngs of over-zealous people. Amy remains tight to your side, arm laced through yours, afraid to let go lest she be absorbed into the human mass. The street is filled with music and everywhere you turn there are stalls filled with game tents and junk food. The smell of sugar and meat fills the air.

"Do you remember the first time you took me to a fair?" Amy asks, and you can barely hear her over the crowd and music.

You do remember the first time. You were both nineteen. Back then you truly believed you loved her in the way a man is supposed to love a woman, and as the memory floods your mind you feel a pang of longing nostalgia for those days.

"Yeah," you reply, then smile, "I won a bear for you, din't I?"

She grins at the memory and you feel a rush of ridiculous pride at the look of adoration on her face.

"That was just luck," she smirks, cheekily.

"Yer wha?" You almost choke at the insinuation, "no it wasn't, that took aim and skill, ye know!"

"Sure, sure," she humours you.

"No, no," you stop in the middle of the bustle and turn to face her, "I won that fair and square! I could do it again in a heart beat!"

You look at her and she nods her head in the direction of a game stall. There's a challenge in her eyes,

"Prove it," she says.

The words jolt something in you and your heart skips a beat. _Prove it,_ isn't that what Brendan said to you? Right before you both went to that old pub...the day you both...

You immediately block the thought from your mind. Not now. Not when she's right in front of you, close enough to see the flicker of longing in your eyes.

You've never been able to back down to those words.

"All right," you say, "I will."

You walk over to the stall, where the game consists of knocking over towered pins. You pay for a game and in return the man hands you three balls. You look at Amy and she's smiling softly at you, and you realize suddenly that this is her attempt at re-establishing a bond between you both. You smile at her in return when you realize it's working. You grab a ball in your hand and eye the pins with steely determination, then you pull your arm back and lunge forward, propelling it at the set of pins. You knock them down in one go and break into a smile as each one hurtles to the ground. You turn to Amy and grin,

"Told you it took skill," you smirk.

"My hero," she smiles, taking the stuffed bear offered to her.

You look at her as she marvels at the toy in her hands and your mouth twitches at the sight. She used to have the ability to make you laugh and smile like nobody else could, and at times like this you realize that she still can. However, just as that thought crosses your mind, so does another. A thought that reminds you that nothing she does will make you feel a shadow of how _he_ made you feel, and it sends shivers down your spine. You immediately shake him from your mind. You've been getting too indulgent lately, torturing yourself with thoughts of him to such an extent that it's becoming masochistic. You can't stop your thoughts from deviating towards him. Your smile falters, but Amy doesn't notice as she drags you off to the other stalls.

You make your way around several tents, stopping by a candy floss machine on the way. You can't help but smile at the thought that spending the day with Amy has actually been fun. For a moment you consider the thought that maybe you can do this. Maybe you _can _let the past stay in the past. After all, today you felt like you finally found that spark with her again. Maybe it's not the intense, burning spark you felt with the Irishman, but it's a soft, consistent ember that will keep you safe and warm...and maybe that's enough.

You ask Amy if she's ready to go get dinner, but her eyes are focused on something and when you turn your head you feel your heart immediately drop. She turns to you with a grin and you shake your head violently,

"No way," you say, "Amy, no!"

"Come on! It'll be fun!" She insists, grabbing your arm, "Nancy went to one once and she said it was dead weird! Like they predicted she'd get a new job, then two months later she came to work with me at the school! They told her loads of stuff about herself!"

"Yeah, well I already know 'bout meself, right?" You reply, "Don't need some weirdo telling me stuff I already know."

You look across at a tent with a sign outside reading _Fortune Teller. _Amy knows you hate stuff like that, but even your protests aren't enough to stop her from dragging you over and shoving you into the tent.

Your face is fixed into a frown as you're greeted by a short, brunette lady in her mid-thirties. She's wearing a burnt orange head scarf and her outfit is a strange mix of bohemian and witch-like. You _hate_ stuff like this and you roll your eyes at the whole spectacle. However, you can't help but be swept away by Amy's excitement. You sit down beside her, opposite the lady, who is peering at you both from the other side of a small, wooden table. The whole thing feels ridiculous. You sigh.

"Welcome! How may I help you both today?" She asks, dark eyes flicking between you and Amy.

You feel Amy nudge your arm, urging you to reply, and you glare at her because she knows you hate this but she doesn't seem to give a crap. You turn to the woman and say,

"We're here to get our fortune told," you're unable to keep the scepticism from your tone, "apparently."

You feel Amy's burning glare on the side of your head, but you don't care.

"You're a sceptic, I take it?" The woman smiles, as if she's heard it all before.

"Sort of," you reply, "all seems a bit crazy to me."

"Ste!" Amy shrieks.

"What?" You turn to her, brow furrowed, "I'm just bein' honest!"

The woman regards you with a tight expression, then turns to Amy with a smile.

"And you?" She asks, "are you a believer?"

"I don't know," Amy smiles wistfully, as if momentarily entertaining the idea, "I can't say, really. Maybe there is something more..."

You roll your eyes and you know the lady sees it, but she says nothing.

"What do you want to know about your fortune?" She asks Amy.

It takes you next to no time to realize that this lady does not like you, and you're fine with that. Maybe that means she won't pay much attention to you. You can only hope.

For the first fifteen minutes the lady focuses on Amy, taking her hands and reading her life-lines whilst spewing out some crap about a potential promotion. She also tells her something about life taking an unexpected turn, and you can't help but roll your eyes at the vague statements. You look at your watch and your mouth salivates at the thought of getting food in half an hour. You're starving.

After a while the woman lets go of Amy's hands and you think the session is over, however as you're about to stand, the woman holds out her palms and asks you to place your hands in hers. You look at Amy, who is grinning at you like she adores your discomfort, and your body is tense as you turn your head back to the woman.

"No thanks," you say, "I don't need my fortune read, I'll just pay for her."

The woman looks at you with dark eyes, then smiles,

"Are you afraid of discovering the unknown?" She smiles, and the tone in her voice irritates you.

"No," you say, "it's not that, I just don't believe in this stuff, right?"

"If you don't believe, then there's nothing to fear," she argues, eyebrow raised.

You glance at her and suddenly you feel like this is about more than just belief. You lean forward in your chair, over the table, then slowly reach out with both hands and tentatively place your palms in hers. She closes her eyes and once again you're overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of this situation. However, a morbid curiosity wells in your gut as she begins to speak. She starts off with vague sentences that could be applied to anyone, saying that you're stressed and unhappy in work. You snort out a chuckle and ask her what twenty-three year old isn't stressed and unhappy in work? She looks at you with sharp eyes and you shut your mouth. However, when she begins talking again, your body freezes at her words.

"Do you suffer from restless nights, Mr. Hay?" She asks, then opens her eyes as you remain quiet.

"He does!" Amy replies, as if completely excited by the revelation.

However, you're anything but excited. You're terrified. You tell yourself it was just a lucky guess, but the risk that she could tell Amy about the content of your dreams has your heart racing. You've never told Amy what your dreams are about. You know this woman couldn't possibly know, but it feels like a gamble.

"Sometimes..." you reply.

You can feel your hackles rising, and your hands tighten around hers sub-consciously. She looks at you and it's like you both share a secret, and your heart is pounding in your chest when she closes her eyes again.

"You have bad nightmares," she continues, "they cause you a great deal of stress."

You continue to remain quiet, but Amy is giving everything away with her gasps of surprise.

"Sometimes..." you repeat, "so what?"

"You are a very distressed man, Mr. Hay," she continues, "I sense that there's a great emptiness in you."

The whole room is quiet now. Amy has stopped squealing and you can tell she is looking at you with a furrowed brow, face filled with concern. You urge the woman to stop talking with your eyes and your jaw is tense, but she continues to speak regardless;

"You're running from something," she says, and flicks her eyes open to look at you.

You don't need to say anything for her to know that she's hit a nerve in you. You see something flash across her face and her eyes shift to Amy. You can feel your wife's anxiety radiating from her, and you want to get up and leave but you know that would be too obvious. After a tense few moments, the woman adds,

"However, I also sense that there's a great love in your life," she smiles at Amy, "you have nothing to fear, Mr. Hay."

You hear Amy let out a sigh of relief beside you, but your eyes are still fixed on the lady before you. You know that everything she said was just a lucky guess. You've watched a million programs on television about how these people are con-artists, designed to cold-read and take your money, but the experience has left you shaken even if it was just luck. You stand up and pull your hands from the woman, then quickly give her the money. You put your palm on Amy's back, ushering her towards the door as she thanks the woman for her time. When you walk out of the tent, you hear Amy whisper giddily beside you,

"Well, that's reassuring!" She grins, nudging your arm playfully, "The fortune teller thinks our love is going to last forever."

"Never doubted it for a moment," you reply, tightly.

"See, I told you it would be fun!"

"Yeah...fun," you mutter.

When you finally get to the restaurant, you don't eat a bite...

Xoxoxoxox

You arrive home late in the evening.

As you pull up into the driveway, you turn to look at Amy's sleeping form in the passenger's seat. She drank too many glasses of wine at dinner and you think they've all hit her at once. You can't help but let out a sigh of relief as you realize that whatever she had planned for tonight obviously won't be happening.

You hop out of the car and unlock the front door of your house, then march over to the passenger's side of the car and pull open the door. You reach in and pick up Amy's languid body from the seat, heaving her up into your arms and marvelling at her light frame. She sleepily throws her arms around your neck and allows you to support her, and you take her full weight as you carry her into the house and upstairs to bed. However, as you set her body down you feel her hands gliding down to the button of your jeans. You swipe her hand away, but she persistently continues and you feel yourself getting irate.

"Stop it," you mutter, "you're drunk."

"I'm not," she protests, though her voice is slurred, "come on, loosen up."

"No," you furrow your brow, "just get some sleep."

You attempt to get her out of her clothes, but you soon give up when every movement leads to her hands being in places they shouldn't be. You let out a sigh and step away from her, but she immediately sits up and regards you with a hurt expression.

"Why don't you want to?" She asks, voice soft and vulnerable.

"I do," you mutter, but you can't look her in the eye.

"Then _show me_, Ste!" She's practically begging you, "please, just..."

But her voice drags off when she realizes it's no use. She looks you in the eye, and you feel helpless. You remain silent.

"Never mind," she shakes her head, sighing angrily, "good night, Ste."

You lower your eyes as she gets out of bed and walks into the bathroom to take off her make up. You put your hands over your face and try to keep composed as you slowly turn on your heel and walk downstairs. On the way you pull some spare blankets and a pillow from the laundry closet, ready to set up the sofa.

That night you have the nightmare again. The same one as always, only recently the colours have been more vivid and more powerful; so intense your dreams may as well be reality. Your heart is beating in your chest as you look at the man on the balcony and you're pushing and pulling against the people trying to hold you back. Sometimes it feels like the whole World is holding you back. You've heard about people who have dreams where they're running and it feels like they're getting nowhere, but you reckon it can't even come close to the type of frustration you feel in these moments. The moments when you're looking up at him from the ground and you know what's about to happen, but you can't stop it. The feeling of being unable to stop it is the worst part.

You wake up with a jolt and everything in your body is tense, ready to strike. You can still see the image of his bloodied face in your mind's eye, burnt there, and you feel like nothing you can do will make it go away. You quickly get up and washed and dressed. You leave before Amy has the chance to wake up, because you're too embarrassed to face her and you're not in the mood to hear anything she has to say. Besides, you have another matter on your mind. Ever since yesterday you can't get the psychic's words out of your mind. You don't believe in any of that shit, but her words spooked you, and as soon as she spoke about your dreams you knew you needed to go and see her again. You need answers, because these dreams are unlike anything you've ever experienced before -so real they may as well be happening- and you know that if there's even a chance this woman may have an answer, then you're going to find out, no matter how ridiculous you feel in the process.

As you drive towards town, you see the fair in the distance and you park as close-by as you can. As you push through the crowds towards the familiar tent, a chill begins to crawl up your neck. You feel ridiculous for even entertaining this notion, for even giving credence to this woman's lucky guesses, but you can't help yourself.

You walk in and see the woman there, dressed in the same bizarre get-up she was in the day before. She greets you with a smile, but her eyes are wide and you know that she is surprised to see you again. Especially when you were so opposed to her profession the day before.

"Hello again," she says, "I'm surprised to see you back."

"Yeah, well..." you pause, "I was just passing by and thought I would..."

She looks at you with a raised eyebrow and you realize there's no point in lying. She knows why you're here, it doesn't take a genius to figure it out. The only thing stopping you from saying the words is pride. Pride that you, a professional business man, could become so superstitious in his need for answers that he's throwing all his hopes into the supernatural.

"I just wanted to come back and get another reading."

"Is that so?" she smiles, then gestures for you to take a seat. You oblige, "Any particular reason you've come back so soon?"

You look at her and your mouth feels dry. You swallow, eyes scanning the room at the bizarre decorations and little ornaments scattered throughout the place. Why the Hell _are_ you back? This feels too ludicrous for words. However, a fine sweat is forming on your back as you think about the dream you had the night before, and you decide to take a chance and tell this woman exactly why you're here.

"I...I want you to tell me more about these dreams I'm having..."

"Dreams?" She looks confused for a moment.

"Yeah, the dream...yesterday you mentioned the nightmares I get."

She looks confounded for a moment, as if she doesn't remember at all. You feel frustrated now and your eyes narrow on her. Your heart is beating, because you feel so close to getting answers and her inability to remember is driving a wedge between you and the end to these nightmares.

"_Yesterday_," you emphasize, trying to jog her memory, "you told me I had nightmares, right? You said I was unhappy."

She stares at you in silence, eyebrows pulled up at your raised voice.

"Do you even remember?" You ask.

"I...Yes, OK, I think I maybe remember that," she says, and her cool demeanour is dropping because you realize she doesn't remember a word she told you, "What do you want to know about them?"

Your shoulders drop as you suddenly realize that this woman does not have any God damn answers. She really is just a fraud. A fraud who took a lucky guess. Probably saw the bags under your eyes and guessed you got no sleep, just like she guessed you were stressed at your work. All just cold reading. After a long silence in which you both look at each other, you see her eyes dance over you as she realizes that you've sussed her out, and slowly you stand to your feet and shake your head. You can't believe you even entertained the idea.

"Never mind, I shouldn't have come back," you mutter.

You walk out of the tent quickly, embarrassed by your own gullibility and as you drive to work your face is red-hot with anger and frustration. You still have no answers, despite going to such extreme lengths to find them, and you wonder if perhaps this is a sign that you should try and get medication for these nightmares you've been having. You've been telling yourself to go to the doctor for months, but something has stopped you every time. You _don't want_ to get rid of the dreams...you want answers to them. You thought perhaps the fortune teller could give them to you but you were wrong, and still the memory of his image on that balcony dwells in the back of your mind- a constant spectre.

_Xx One Week Later xx_

You watch from the side of the room as Amy shamelessly flirts with Mike.

You clutch your glass of straight Whiskey to your chest. teeth grinding together, and you savour the sting in your throat as you swig a mouthful. Your whole body is tense and part of you wants to march over and ask Mike what the fuck he thinks he's doing, but you can't be bothered and the haze of your mild intoxication only heightens your laziness. Instead, you watch from the side of the room whilst guests swarm around you, trying to trap you in conversation.

You reluctantly agreed a few days ago when Amy told you -rather frostily- that she wanted to have a dinner party this week. Ever since you rejected her the week before, her manner towards you had been icy at best. For several days after, she barely spoke to you, and every attempt you made towards her only resulted in you feeling even more horrid than before. So, when she broke her ice-age feud to tell you that she wanted to throw a dinner party for all your friends, you were so shocked that she was even speaking to you that you instantly agreed. However, only now are you beginning to regret your decision, because Amy invited everyone to the party; from neighbours, to work colleagues...to _Mike_.

Mike Danes possessed every imaginable quality that a woman could want in a man; from his insufferable jokes (that women seemed to die laughing at), to his effortlessly confident and charming persona. He looked like he just fell out of a Calvin Klein advert and it makes you sick. You were so sure that something had happened between Amy and Mike while you were in Dublin, but Amy's complete dedication to your marriage when you arrived home immediately confirmed to you that it didn't. Somehow, Amy had managed to resist the claws of temptation...something which couldn't be said for you. Of course, this revelation only intensified your feelings of guilt, along with your need to make this marriage work no matter what. You try not to acknowledge the fact that your attempts at doing so have been hugely unsuccessful.

You gulp down another sip of whiskey.

You watch as Mike leans in close and laughs at a joke Amy's told. Meanwhile, Amy clutches her wine glass to her chest and smiles up at him like he's some sort of Adonis, and you feel your body contract with tension. Your eyes narrow on them and you feel like you have to go over there, like they're making a fool of you, but you stop when you notice her eyes glance over to you. You freeze, because something about her expression makes your heart drop. Suddenly you realize that she's doing this on purpose, to make you jealous. The thought immediately sobers you. You don't feel jealous...you feel possessive. You wish you were jealous...

You neck back the rest of your whiskey and leave the room, unable to stand it any longer.

You walk up the stairs to your bedroom and close the door behind you. The darkness of the room feels almost cathartic against the gathering tension in your chest. You sit down on the edge of the bed and throw yourself back on the soft, doughy quilts, then you close your eyes and try to imagine being anywhere else but here.

In the dangerous silence of the room, it doesn't take long for your mind to wander_..._

You try not to think of his name, knowing the thought will leave your mind burning with his presence for days, but you can't help yourself. The whiskey flowing through your veins makes you careless. You think of his hands on you, of his lips against your lips...it's been so long since you felt anything like what you felt then. You try to imagine his voice, to burn it into your memory, but you can already feel it fading after a month without it. You wonder how this man you met for a week has wormed his way so deep under your skin.

You haven't contacted him since you left him at the airport, nor has he tried to contact you. You swore to yourself on the day you left that that would be it, no contact, no nothing, for good. You wanted to give yourself a chance to be the person you thought you could be. Before you met him you found it easy to pretend to be _that guy. _The type of guy who looked like he had everything on the outside, so it didn't matter what was going on inside. You repressed your feelings so well that you could almost have fooled yourself they didn't exist. Everything was going so damn well before Brendan Brady came along and fucked it up. So you didn't contact him. Not once. However, that doesn't mean you haven't been tempted. Especially at times like this, when you're drunk and your mind swims with thoughts of him...only him. You pull out your phone and scroll through the people in your contact list, then hover over the familiar name etched on the screen..._Brendan B. _You swallow at the sight. Several times you have tried to delete his name, his number, from your life...but you couldn't bring yourself to do it.

You open up a new message and stare at the blank screen, fingers poised over the buttons. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest. You were sure that coming back to England was the right idea, you still stand by that decision...but sometimes a man has urges. Sometimes, no matter how much you try not to want something, you end up wanting it more...

Your thumbs dance across the keyboard of your phone and you stare at the composed message with blurred eyes. Your mouth is dry. You wait for a moment as you stare down at the message displayed, wondering whether or not to take the chance. After a moment you click send, and instantly you regret it. What the fuck have you done? The 'sent' sign flashes up on screen and your message sits there in the box, surrounded by emptiness:

_Hi._

It's not much, but it's the first contact you've ever attempted to the Irishman since you left. You're not even sure if the number in your phone is still the right number, or if he'll even reply. Still, the excitement of the unknown makes your nerves sizzle. You continue to lie on the bed, head and heart racing as you wait for a response.

When an hour passes and you still have no reply, you can't help the drop of your heart. After a while you slowly start to realize that you're no longer an issue in the Irishman's life, if you ever were. What did you expect, anyway? Of course he was never going to reply. However, no sooner is the thought in your mind than a loud buzz emits from your phone. You sit up, heart racing, and you quickly glance down at the screen.

_From: Brendan B. _

Your hands are shaking as you pick up the phone and open the message. Your heart lurches as the display opens to reveal his response, which contains only two words.

_Hello Steven. _

You feel like the phone is scalding your hand and you quickly throw it across the bed, as far away from you as possible. Your throat is dry, heart racing, you were so sure he wasn't going to respond...you were wrong. After a moment you stand up, grab your phone and shove it into your bedside cabinet, out of sight. You went too far this time. Thoughts are one thing, but reaching out and sending him a message is entirely different. You tell yourself it was the alcohol that weakened your resolve.

You don't message him back.

When you go downstairs to rejoin your guests, your body is shivering with thoughts of him. In that one, fleeting moment you were connected to him, and the thought of that is close to euphoric.

When you go to sleep that night, you can feel the phone burning in your bedside cabinet.

Xoxooxox

Three days pass before you think about the Irishman again.

During the three days in which you contacted Brendan, you deleted the messages from your phone. During your counselling session you made more of an effort to communicate, something which both Amy and your counsellor noticed, and you threw yourself into spending your time on your work and with Pauline. Even Amy's attitude towards you had considerably thawed after seeing the effort you were making, and it was just enough to make you feel less guilty for slipping up.

However, on the third night, your restraint was about to be put to the test once again.

You were invited out for a colleague's birthday at the weekend. You'd tried to decline the offer, but your were pressured from all sides when you were told that this person was going to be leaving the company the following month and so you were powerless to argue. You reluctantly accepted and said you would stay for a couple of hours. However, on the night of the party, a couple of hours turned into a couple of shots, and a couple of shots turned into a night of heavy drinking. You tried to remain sober, tried to go home, but everywhere you turned another drink was placed into your hands, until you were past the edge of reason. You downed each one. After a while the party moved from the local pub down the street to a bar, and only after you'd paid your way into the thriving hive were you told that it was a gay bar.

You watch with morbid fascination as men of all ages and sizes dance together, bodies pressed against each other, as if sucking the oxygen from their lungs. You push your way through the masses of people to the bathroom and inside you manage to find some of your co-workers, only to lose them again in an instant. You walk to the sink and throw water over your face, trying to regain some form of sobriety, and as you look up you spot a man staring at you from the corner of your eye.

You freeze. Your whole body tenses as you watch the figure, his gaze locked on you, and it makes a lump form in your throat. Somewhere in your mind, you know it's the Irishman. When you find the strength to turn and look at the man watching you, you find yourself face-to-face with him...but it isn't Brendan. Just another figment of your imagination. An illusion sent to torture you. When you look at the man, he doesn't even look like Brendan at all, but he's dark-haired and stubble-cheeked and is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive.

You feel his hand on your shoulder, and something inside you snaps. You look at him and his hand slowly slips down your back towards your ass. You swallow, breathe in deeply, and if you close your eyes you can almost imagine it is _him_. When you open your eyes again, he's backed you up into a corner, and your body is tense. If you focus on his blue eyes alone, you could almost swear...

You hear someone call your name, and your eyes snap to the entrance of the bathroom as the booming music pours through the club. A girl from your floor has spotted you and she freezes in the doorway as she sees you, pressed against the wall while this bear of a man crowds in on your small frame. You open your mouth, try to explain, but nothing comes out. However, before you can speak, the girl moves forward and pushes the man out of the way, shouting _He's married you pervert! _At him, whilst pulling you from the room. When you look back, he's smiling at you, and it sends a shock through your system.

When you arrive home, you try your best not to wake Amy. She lies motionless in the bed as you fall around the room, throwing your clothes on the floor in a haphazard manner as your body buzzes with excitement. You'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be that close to another man. You lie down in the bed and try to sleep, but to no avail. After fifteen minutes of tossing and turning, thoughts focused on one thing only, you get up and walk into the bathroom, bringing your phone with you. The alcohol is still buzzing in your system and every muscle in your body humming. You pull the toilet seat down and sit, head light and dizzy. You can't stop thinking about Brendan. The way the man in the club made you feel was only a shadow of how the Irishman made you feel, and only when the alcohol is burning through your system will you admit that to yourself.

Without thinking, you open a new message and start typing.

_Are you awake? _

You hesitate over the message, heart throbbing, but you don't allow yourself to think too much about it before you press send. You lean back and let your head fall backward and everything inside you wants to be able to fight it but you can't. You have to know if he still thinks about you. You have to know if he feels even a shadow of what you feel, or if the time apart has tested him in every possible way a man can be tested. You thought the feelings would fade with time, but you were wrong about that as well. Time has simply intensified the yearning. You don't have to wait long for him to reply.

_Yes._

His message is simple and invites no reply, but you know he wants you to. You don't know how, but you know he wants you to respond. You lean forward and let out a shaky breath. Suddenly, something in your body shuts down and you can't think of a response. You're dancing with fire, and you don't want to get burnt alive. Five minutes pass and you still haven't replied. You think about putting your phone away, but before you do it buzzes again and you swallow as you open his second message.

_What do you want, Steven?_

You hold your head in your hands and your body feels burning hot as the alcohol flows through your system. You feel dizzy and high in this moment. High on the thought of just talking to him. You let out yet another breath, gather your courage, and your heart races as your thumbs shakily construct the only response you can think of in this moment.

_You..._

You hold your breath and hit send.

You get no response for half an hour and suddenly you feel like you've made a huge mistake. You get up, tremors running through your body, and you wish you had the power to delete the past. To take it back. But you can't, because you're a selfish man and you can't process the fact that it was you who ended it. It was you who walked away, and yet here you are once again, inviting him back into your life only to inevitably push him away once again. This circle you keep treading is tiresome, but addictive, and you can't stop no matter how hard you try. You can't let it end. You can't forget about him...you can't let _him_ forget about _you. _

You start to think he's not going to reply, so you set the phone beside the sink and press a cold cloth to your face to cool yourself down. However, as you do, you hear your phone let out a loud noise. You look over and your mouth falls open at the words on the screen,

_Brendan B calling..._

Your mouth is dry. You close the bathroom door and make sure it's locked, but as you hold the phone in your hand all you can do is watch as it blinks on and off. You want desperately to answer it, but you can't. Something is stopping you. You can't talk to him, you don't think you could handle it. Just as your thumb hovers over the 'answer' button, it rings off. You let out a long, trembling breath and glance at the _one missed call _message on the screen.

Suddenly, the phone starts to ring again. You watch as it vibrates in your hand..._Brendan B calling._ This time you can't resist. Your spine tingles at the thought of speaking to him. You answer.

"H-hello?" You whisper, barely audible through the tremor of your speeding pulse.

There's silence, and for a moment you're not sure if he can even hear you. Your body is tense, ready to crumble at any moment, when suddenly you hear a crackle and the sound of his voice momentarily guts you.

"Hello Steven."

You don't say a word, too afraid to open your mouth. It's the first time you've spoken to him in a month, yet it feels like so much longer. You swallow. You hear him move on the other side of the line and you wonder what he's doing. You're not speaking, not making a sound, and for a moment you're afraid he's going to hang up, but he doesn't. He just waits. When you finally find your voice, it comes out shaky and broken.

"H-hi," you reply, and it feels weak but it's all you can think to say, "how are you?"

"Good," his response is short, "you?"

"Good..."

There's a long silence and you can hear his breath down the phone. You close your eyes against the sound and you can almost imagine he's here with you. Suddenly the silence seems like too much.

"I-I'm sorry...I shouldn't have messaged you," You say, heart thumping in your throat.

"But you did," he replies, instantly.

"I know...I've...I've been drinking, a bit...I just..."

You can't form words. Can't think straight. He has the power to make a fool of you even over the phone, when he's nowhere near you, when you're both in different countries. You wonder what kind of demon gave him this power over you...

"You just what?" He asks, voice steady.

"I just..." you close your eyes, because you don't know what to say, "I was thinking about you."

"Mm," he groans, and the sound sends a shiver of delight down your spine, "just thinking about me, huh? And why's that?"

You can't answer. It feels too surreal, speaking to him. You wonder if you'll wake up in a moment and realize this was all a dream.

"I-I don't know..." You reply, because you honestly don't know.

"You don't know," he muses, letting the words roll over his tongue, "and how about that message the other day? I suppose you don't know why you did that either, no?"

You remain quiet, unable to form an answer.

"It's been a month," he says, voice low.

He doesn't need to remind you, you've been counting the days.

"I know," you reply.

"Why now?" he asks.

"I don't know..."

He let's out a sigh, and it sounds heavy with frustration.

"Steven..." he sighs, but when he speaks again his tone is firm, "you said it yourself, this is the way it has to be."

You remember your words at the airport. Now they're being used against you, thrown back in your face, but coming from him they sound cold. They wound you.

"I know," you lick your lips, helpless, head swimming with alcohol and tongue throbbing with all the words you want to say.

"No, you don't know," his voice is a low grumble, "otherwise you wouldn't be sending these messages, now, would ye?"

"I just...I don't know how to stop."

He's silent. So quiet you can hear the sound of your blood rushing through your veins. It's been so long since you felt like this, but talking to him on the phone is only a faint shadow of what it felt like to be with him. You wonder if he's going to gloat and say that he was right all along. That you _are_ weak, that you _are_ a coward, just like he said you were at the airport. His reply astounds you,

"You did what was best, Steven..."

Your eyes widen at his words,

"What?" You ask.

"You went home," he explains, "you went back to your family and you did the right thing"

His words momentarily shock you into silence, but you have no need to speak as he continues talking,

"I take it that's why you messaged me," he muses, "to know that you did the right thing...well I'm telling you you did. Don't ever doubt that."

When you do respond, your heart is racing,

"Maybe...but maybe I..." you whisper, voice achingly low, "maybe I-"

"You did," he assures you, voice forceful.

"I just...I can't stop thinking about-"

"Don't..."

"I can't stop thinking-"

"Don't fucking say it," he warns, "just...stop."

"I have to see you again," the words are falling from your mouth, propelled by alcohol, "I have to."

"You don't," he snaps, "you need to stay over there with your family. I know that now."

"But-"

"Steven..." his voice is low and dangerous, "you need to let it go."

"I don't know if I can..."

You don't have time to wait for his response before you suddenly hear a thud sound from the bedroom, followed by Amy's voice calling out to you,

"Ste, are you there?"

You jump and before you can think you immediately hang up the phone, then hide it in the cupboard under the sink. A wave of shock and sudden nausea pounds through your system and you automatically rush to the door, opening it just in time to find Amy standing in front of you.

"Who were you talking to?" She asks, brow knitted together in confusion.

"Nobody," you shake your head.

"I heard your voice," she raises an eyebrow and folds her arms over her pale pink nightgown.

"Oh, that was just me talkin' to meself," you try to laugh it off, but her expression is unamused.

"How drunk are you?" She asks.

Your vision is slightly blurred and your words are slightly slurred, but the conversation with the Irishman has sobered you up considerably.

"A bit," you reply, "sorry..."

She eyes you up and down then let's out a sigh and unfolds her arms.

"Just keep the noise down, Pauline's trying to sleep and so am I," she grunts, "come to bed."

She turns and walks back to the bed, leaving you standing at the door of the bathroom with a racing heart and chest pains. You let out a long breath and your cheeks flush, coloured with the thought of almost getting caught. You walk over to the cupboard and pull out your phone, and on the screen you see the words _one new message._

You open it with shaky fingers and your whole body freezes when you see the words:

_Let it go, Steven._

As you read those words, heart in your throat, you realize that you have to see him again...


	18. Chapter 18

_Thank you for all reviews for the previous chapter! Special thanks also to Letters in Red for the fic cover picture! _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 18**

You bite on the edges of your finger-nails as your counsellor talks endlessly about feelings, thoughts and other matters that hold little or no interest to you. Your mind is distracted by other things. You haven't been able to get the conversation with the Irishman out of your head since the week-end. You woke up on Sunday morning with a blistering head-ache and a gnawing feeling of regret in your stomach, and it didn't take you long to figure out what you'd done to warrant that regret. As soon as you opened your eyes you checked your phone, glanced over the messages, and there his name was on the screen- taunting you. Visual evidence that it wasn't just a dream. In one fatal instant, one moment of weakness, you'd destroyed weeks of progress. Now it's Monday morning and his name is a constant presence in your mind. You haven't forgotten. You haven't moved on.

However, regret is not the only feeling that lies in the pit of your stomach. You've been replaying the conversation with him over and over in your head, letting his words slip in and out of your mind until you feel crazy over them. He told you to _let it go_ but hearing those words only makes the longing worse. Your heart drops when you think about it, because it makes you think he's fine. That he's over whatever it was that transpired between you both. Maybe he is. Maybe you're the fool who can't move on...or maybe he's just sick of your inability to decide what it is you really want.

It's clear that both Amy and your counsellor noticed your lack of interest in the session. When asked questions, you replied with a grunt, and the glazed look in your eyes did nothing to help matters. When you walk out the door to leave, Amy asks you if everything is all right, and you reply with a smile and an _I'm fine,_ but when you lean in to press a kiss to her mouth she turns and presents you with her cheek. You can't blame her for being cold. She leaves to go to work, having come in separate cars, and as she does you let out a sigh and watch her retreating form.

You're about to leave as well, when suddenly you hear a voice call behind you. You turn around and find yourself face-to-face with Lynn, your counsellor, and she's looking at you with a soft smile. It immediately puts you on edge.

"Ste, can I talk to you for a moment?" She asks, still regarding you with that same expression.

You look at her with wide eyes and your mouth drops. You wonder what on Earth she could possibly have to say to you, considering your session is over, but a heavy feeling of dread swells inside you and you think it's your sixth sense telling you to run. You swallow.

"Oh...well...it's just, I've got work now-"

"It'll only take a moment," she says, motioning towards the office you'd just exited from, "come on, we can talk in here."

You follow reluctantly, feet dragging on the floor like a young schoolboy who's about to get a telling off. You walk into the room and hesitate at the door, as she walks over to the chair behind her desk. When she sees you standing, she motions towards a chair opposite with her hand, inviting you to take a seat. You comply.

"Am I about to get told off?" You joke, but there's an undercurrent of seriousness to your tone.

"No, no," she laughs, waving you away with a flick of her hand, "I just wanted to ask how you're getting on. If you think counselling is helping you at all?"

You look her in the eye, mouth open and hands poised on the edge of your chair, as if ready to flee at any moment. You feel like this is just casual chit-chat before discussing what she _really_ wants to talk about.

"Uh," you respond feebly, lost for words, "I-"

"Today you just seemed a little off," she muses, nodding empathetically, urging the truth out of you with every gesture, "in fact, you've seemed a little off for the past few sessions."

You're still. You feel like a rabbit caught in the headlights and a paranoid part of you wonders if she knows your secret. Of course she couldn't possibly, but everything makes you paranoid these days. It's like what happened in Dublin has opened up a door inside you, and sometimes it feels like everyone is looking in. Like _everyone_ knows.

"I guess what I'm trying to ask," she says, then let's out a huff of laughter, "rather inarticulately, is if everything is all right?"

You stare at her for a moment, lost for words, then shake yourself back into focus.

"Yeah," you nod, "everything's fine. Great. Why?"

Her eyes scan over you and she presses a finger to her cheek in thought, curled palm resting on her chin.

"Ste, I've been doing this a very long time," her voice is calm and reassuring, but your heart lurches with every word, "I have developed a bit of a sixth sense for things and I feel like there's something on your mind."

You take in a sharp breath and hope she doesn't notice. Your cheek twitches slightly, a tick you notice you've been developing over these past few weeks, and time stands still as she watches you and you try to think of something to say. Finally, you break the silence,

"I'm fine," you shrug, "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm here for Amy."

"Yes, so you keep saying," she hums, "it's clear you're here for Amy, Ste, but are you here for _you?"_

You swallow, eyes dancing over her face. You can feel a fine sweat on your brow. You huff out a laugh because it's all you can think to do.

"Course I am," you say, astounded by the question, "why else would I be here?"

She regards you with lowered eyes and tight lips. She can't drag information out of you, and for that you're eternally grateful. It doesn't stop her from prompting you to open up, though.

"Only you can answer that, Ste," she shrugs, "but if there is anything bothering you, you can tell me. I may be a relationship counsellor, but if there's anything you wish to discuss with me without Amy being present, then I'm obligated to keep it confidential."

You look at her for a moment and as soon as the words leave her mouth, a strong feeling within urges you to tell her. You have no one else and the thought of getting this burning secret off your chest sometimes feels like too much for one man to bear. You continue to stare at her, tempted beyond belief, and your mouth opens to form the words...but you can't. God damn it, you wish you could, but you can't. What if she told Amy? What if she urged you to tell her, which of course she would. She'd urge you to be truthful, because that's surely what therapists do, isn't it? They promote honesty and healthy minds and all that shit. You can cope with an unhealthy mind if it means your whole life doesn't fall off the rails. You're selfish, you admit that, but you convince yourself that it's for selfless reasons.

"Honestly," you smile until it looks sincere, "there's nothing wrong. Work is stressful at the moment, I've got a lot on my mind."

She stares at you, long and lingering, then smiles and nods. That's all she's going to get from you and she knows it.

"All right, Ste," she says, "but if you ever want to talk...I'm here."

You give her a slight nod and stand from your seat, reaching out a hand to shake hers.

"I will," you reply.

You exit the room as fast as your feet will carry you.

xoxoxo

You are standing by the water fountain when you hear the news.

A group of men from your floor are huddled together nearby, discussing how a team of people have just been put together to give a presentation in a few weeks time...in Dublin. You try -_strain_- to hear every little detail about it, but all you pick up on is that they're being sent over to advertise and market a new product being sold in the UK and Ireland.

You hadn't been informed of the presentation, so you automatically know you aren't in the running to go, but God you want to. Your heart is beating hard at the thought. You know they need you here though, and your current position within the company doesn't require you to go to Dublin anymore, not since you got the promotion. You bitterly wonder how a promotion could limit you in this way.

Now you're in your office, sitting at your desk, thinking about what it would be like to be part of that team going to Ireland. It's not even that far away, but it seems like a World-trip. You become so engrossed in thoughts of it that you find yourself looking up flights, entertaining the thought of booking a week-end trip, but all you can do is hover over the ticket options and wonder. It's a step too far, actually planning to go. However, if you were part of that team, it would be for _work. _The safety of that would comfort you enough to give you the courage to go back.

You wonder who has been selected to go on this trip. It could be anyone, from any floor, and the jealousy of these unknown people gnaws at your gut. You feel _jealous _of them- envious of people you don't even know yet. Envious that they will be going to the place you want to go the most, just to be close to him again. You're not even sure what you would do if you did go, if you could even bring yourself to see him again, but being there would be enough. The distance between you now feels infinite.

You hate that all thoughts inevitably lead back to _him. _The smell of him. The taste of him. You remember how he dominated your thoughts in Dublin, had you questioning your own sanity, and you'd hoped coming back would erase him for good, but you're not that lucky. Now, a month later, those feelings for him are still more powerful than ever- persistent and unstoppable. Only now he's not here and the conversation with him at the week-end made it clear he doesn't want to see you. Now all you have is his memory in your head and his number on your phone to remind you that it even happened.

You've been trying so hard since leaving the Irishman to continue life as normal, to forget it ever happened, but you're beginning to realise how useless such thoughts are becoming. Forgetting about him is an impossibility, especially when every urge within you wants to contact him every second of the day. You feel trapped, caught under a spell, and nothing you do can shift him from your thoughts. You see him everywhere, in the corner of your eye, and not seeing him has only gotten harder with time. One week with him has left your scarred for life.

"BOO!"

You feel two hands on your shoulders and the sound immediately jolts you from your daze. You quickly minimize the opened tab of flight details and spin on your seat to face a smiling Darren, whose dressed like an adult in a very smart looking grey suit and salmon tie, but is acting like a child.

"Knock it off," you say, unable to hide your irritation, "you almost gave me a heart attack!"

"Just having a bit of fun with ya!" He grins, "What're you doing?"

"Nothin'," you mutter, "what do you want?"

He steps in front of you and leans back against your desk, lower back pressed into the wooden edge. He folds his arms and crosses his legs at the ankle, casually,

"Just came in to ask if you'd heard about the Dublin trip," he says.

Your body feels deflated by the words and your shoulders drop. You can't stop the twitch from seizing your cheek.

"Yeah, heard somethin' about it," you grumble, "why?"

"Well, you going?" He asks, obviously forgetting that you've been promoted and are now technically his superior. Trust Darren not to give a shit about that.

"I can't," you say, "I've got to stay here now. I'm not needed on those trips anymore, remember?"

"Oh," he seems genuinely surprised, "just thought since you were the golden boy of the last trip, they'd want you back."

"Obviously not," you sigh, "besides, I don't even want to go anyway."

"Sure you don't," he replies, "you just always spend your days looking up flights to Ireland."

Your eyes widen and you glance at the screen of your computer before staring up at him, lips parted. He grins at you,

"I saw the tabs before you closed them," he says, "got to be quicker, mate."

A grimace falls over your face and you let out an annoyed sigh,

"Well if ya knew what I was looking at why did you bother asking?" You snort.

"I was testing you," he says, "you failed."

"Right, is that all you came in to say? 'cause I got work to do," you ask.

"Pretty much," he says, "I thought you were going. Thought we could've showed the Irish a thing or two," he wiggles his eyebrows, "shame!"

Darren pushes his body from the desk and walks towards the door. He's about to leave when suddenly his words sink in and you turn to stop him,

"Wait," you pause, "you're going to Dublin?"

"Yeah," he says, "Danny asked me this morning."

"He did?"

"Yeah," Darren shrugs, "why?"

Like speaking the Devil's name, as soon as the words are out of Darren's mouth, you spot Danny outside the door of your office. He seems in a hurry, strides long and purposeful, but you don't let that deter you from immediately pushing yourself from your seat and going after him, shoving past a startled Darren on the way. You're not sure what you plan to say, but something in your gut urges you forward, and when you step in front of him to block his way the look of surprise on his face is priceless.

"Ste!" He jumps, "Where did you come from?"

"Sorry," you say, breaths slightly laboured from the quick sprint after him, "I was just in my office there and saw you passing by."

He regards you with a curious expression, eyebrows raised,

"Uh, OK," he says, "well, what can I do for you?"

Your mouth is dry as you look at him, nervous about what you intend to ask.

"I...I heard you're organising the Dublin trip," you say.

"I am," he nods.

"Well, I was just wondering if you might need another person there, y'know..." all you receive is a blank stare, "someone to help out with stuff...someone who's been there before and knows what to do..."

You tell yourself you want to go to help out Danny, that's all. You convince yourself of it so much that part of you almost believes it's true, but in the back of your mind the real reason burns a hole in your head.

"Someone like _you,_ Ste?" He asks, knowing smile on his lips.

"Well...I'd do it, y'know, if you needed me," you offer, trying not to be obvious but failing miserably.

Danny laughs and pats you on the shoulder, clamping down with firm fingers,

"Well I appreciate your eagerness, Ste, but it's fine! Honestly!" He smiles, "Besides, you're needed here. Be glad you don't have to jet off anymore, it'll give you more time with your family."

For anyone else in the World this comment may have provoked a smile, but for you it leaves a dull heaviness. The heaviness feels like guilt.

"OK," you nod, smiling half-heartedly, "well, thanks anyway."

"No problem," he winks, then adds, "you need to stop being such a workaholic, Ste. You'll drive yourself mad!"

You watch as he steps past you and down the corridor, out of sight. When he's gone, you let out a long, weary sigh. You try and take this as a sign that you need to stop dwelling on things that can never be and stay home with your family. Besides, Brendan doesn't want to see you, he made that perfectly clear in your last conversation with him. You mentally shake yourself for being so quick to throw yourself back into such a volatile situation. Anyone would think you _want_ to create problems. Like you _want_ to torture yourself by dangling the forbidden fruit in front of your face, plain to see but constantly out of reach.

When you finish your shift, you immediately head back home.

The traffic is busy on the roads and it makes you tense. Thoughts of Dublin are pervading your mind and as you pull up into the driveway of your home, your body is buzzing with frustration. You notice that Amy's car is not there, so she must not be home, and part of you is glad because it'll give you time to gather yourself together. When you walk through the front door and into your kitchen the last thing you expect to see is Mike and Amy laughing together.

You freeze the moment your eyes touch them. Their bodies are close but not connected, and everything about the scene seems suspicious but you haven't caught them doing anything wrong. Nothing for you to accuse or freak out about. You're not sure what to think, but for a moment your vision is obstructed by red.

Amy turns to you and smiles, eyes still gleaming with mirth, and Mike does the same.

"Hi," she chirps, "how was your day?"

There's no trace of guilt on her face, nor on Mike's, which makes you think this is all innocent. However, you regard them both with a steely expression. You walk into the kitchen with tense steps, then take off your jacket and sling it over the back of a kitchen chair. You fold your arms and stare at them both, suspicion etched into the fine lines of your face.

"Well this looks..." you choose your words carefully, "_cosy."_

Amy's expression flickers at the tone of your voice. She frowns, then looks over to Mike, as if ready to follow his lead. Mike smiles,

"I just drove Amy home," he says, "she left her car at work. It broke down."

The excuse seems reasonable, completely believable, and you have no reason to doubt it. However, your lip twitches and a tight knot of irritation gathers in your stomach. You wonder how Mike is always conveniently there in times of crisis, ever the hero, and you're in no mood to censor yourself. Suddenly, you find yourself saying,

"So, you make a habit of calling round to see other men's wives?" You ask, eyes fixed on him.

You can't stop yourself and you see him raise his eyebrows, shocked by the accusation.

"Excuse me?" He asks.

"You heard me," your tone is sharp, cutting.

"Ste," Amy says, voice a warning, "that's not how it was."

"You've got the completely wrong idea, mate," Mike says, trying to appeal to your sense of reason.

Mike continues to stare at you and you keep your eyes fixed on him. You're sick of this guy slinking around your wife, waiting for every moment your back is turned. Amy may be too oblivious to see it, but you're not. You know that look in his eyes, because you recognise it as the look in your own. The look you saw every day in the mirror, every day you knew you would see _him. _That glimmer of temptation.

However, a small part of you wonders why you're trying to stop him. You can't help but think that if Amy cheated it would make this whole thing easier to cope with...make your feelings for Brendan easier to cope with. But you don't want to lose your marriage. You're afraid to, afraid of what that would mean. Afraid she would stop you from seeing your daughter and take everything from you.

Besides, even if your marriage were to end, there's no guarantee with a man like Brendan. In fact, he's probably over you already, sitting in his pub buying some other young, nameless, faceless guy drinks while laughing at you for even bothering to contact him. The thought sends a wave of burning hot embarrassment through you. Maybe that's why he doesn't want you to come back. The thought has crossed your mind and every time it makes your body feel prickly and red-hot. He said it himself, he's not a relationship kind of guy or a _commitment _kind of guy, and you're not the kind of guy who wants a relationship with a man.

After a moment, Mike steps back slowly and sets his own cup of tea on the counter, then moves around Amy and gives her a smile,

"I better go," he says, looking at Amy, then his eyes flicker to you, "I can tell I'm not welcome."

You stare at him coolly as he walks through the room and out the front door. When he's gone, you and Amy are left alone. She's looking at you like she could kill you on the spot. She slams her cup down,

"What was that about?" She asks, blue eyes sharp and unforgiving.

"What was what about?" You grunt.

"Don't play dumb, Ste."

"So what, I'm just supposed to come in and see you two laughing it up and be all right with it, am I?" You shout, unable to contain it.

You don't know why you're so angry, but something within you tells you it has less to do with Mike and more to do with your thoughts about the Irishman.

"It wasn't like that, Ste! He just left me home, that's all!" She replies, "Would you rather I just camped out by the side of the road?"

"Don't be daft!" You snort.

"Well tell me, Ste, what would you rather I done?" She walks over and stands in front of you, arms folded, "Mike gave me a lift, OK? _He_ helped me out, because I can't rely on my husband to be there for me, can I?"

Her words cut you and you can't help but let it show in your expression. You try your best to be there for her as much as possible, but God knows it's not your strongest quality.

"What d'ya mean?" You ask, "I'm there for you."

"Are you really?" She huffs out a bitter laugh, "because it doesn't feel like it sometimes."

"Well what do you expect me to do, Amy?" You ask, "I can't just drop everything when you need me, I've got my job to think about."

"It's always about your job, isn't it Ste?" She says, "You're not married to me, you're married to your work!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," you snort.

"Yeah, well what about when you don't come home from the office straight after your shift?" She asks, "Or when your mind is always preoccupied during counselling? Or when you were in Dublin and you couldn't even take a minute to _call me!" _She's shouting now, months of pent-up frustration pouring from her, "and you have the cheek to accuse me of being a _cheat?_"

You're silent, every words hits you and creates a wound. What right do you have to accuse her of anything, when it's you who has the most to be worried about? When it's you with the guilt? You hear her sigh,

"Ste, there's nothing going on between me and Mike," she says, and for a moment you think she sounds relieved that you even care, "I swear, he just drove me home."

"I'm sorry," You mutter, eyes on the ground because suddenly you feel ashamed of yourself, "I shouldn't have went off like that."

"Well why did you then?" She asks, tone softer now.

"I just..." you shake your head, "I just don't trust him!"

"Do you trust me?" She asks, eyes wide.

You think about it for a moment. You'd trust her with your life, but you'd also understand if she strayed whilst looking for something that you couldn't give her.

"Yes," you reply.

"Good, well then you have nothing to worry about."

She walks over to you and slides her arms around you. You automatically tense at the contact, but soon find yourself easing into the hold. You're strangely comforted by it, like a silent reassurance that everything will be okay, even though you know it probably won't be. You still have Dublin on your mind. You think of the Irishman, of talking to him over the week-end, and suddenly you feel hot. His words circle in your mind, telling you _you made the right choice_, but with Amy in your arms you can't help but feel that lingering doubt that has haunted you from the moment you left him at the airport. After a moment her hug becomes restrictive and you feel like your air supply is being cut off. You break away and she looks at you with concern,

"Ste, your face is all red," she touches the skin of your cheek, "are you OK?"

"Yeah," you mutter, flustered, "I just feel a bit hot."

"You're burning up," she touches your forehead, "I'll get you an aspirin."

"No no," you pull her hand away and put your hand on her face to soothe her, "I'll just get some fresh air, that's all I need."

"Are you sure?" She asks, "you don't look well."

"Really, I'm fine," you say softly, trying to be reassuring. After a moment, she smiles back, "I'll only be gone for half an hour."

"OK," she nods slowly, though her eyes are filled with concern.

You make your way to the door, but you hear a voice behind you before you leave. It's Pauline.

"Where are you going?" She asks, voice high and inquisitive.

You turn and face her on the stairs.

"Hey, sweetheart," you smile, "Daddy's just going out a minute. I'll be back soon, yeah?"

"Why don't you take her with you?" Amy suggests, and you look at her with wide eyes, "She could use the distraction and I could do with some peace."

You look from Amy to Pauline in turn. You'd hoped to have some time to gather your thoughts, to get away, but looking into your daughter's eyes you realize that ever since you arrived home from Dublin all you've been doing is running. You haven't been doing what you set out to do, which is take care of your family. You think of your own Dad and how he wasn't there, and to think that you could be that same person to Pauline kills you. Finally, you nod,

"You want to come with Daddy?" You ask, smiling wide.

You watch your daughter as she grins and waddles down the stairs towards you, a blur of blonde hair and violet garments. You reach down and grab her hand as she sprints towards you. Before you leave, you look up at Amy and find her smiling at you.

You go to a park that's about a ten minute walk from your home. As you walk, Pauline runs around you like a playful ball of energy, asking you five thousand questions a minute about every little thing she can think of, _What's that? Where are we going? Why do people have freckles?_ You can't remember the last time you spent this much concentrated time around her, and already you feel exhausted. You sit down on a nearby bench, which is situated beside a play park where other kids have gathered. Your heart twinges as you fleetingly remember being in the park with Brendan when you were in Ireland, but you try not to dwell on the thought for too long. You've become used to the habit of banishing unwanted thoughts.

"Can I play in the park?" Pauline asks, blue eyes peering at you, watery and filled with wonder.

"Course ye can," you say, "just don't go wandering off!"

She's gone before the words have left your mouth. You watch as she immediately runs over to a group of kids on the swing-set, who are all playing together. You're amazed at how easily she can make friends, when you were always a shy child. She must take it after Amy.

Half an hour passes as you sit on that bench, watching the World go by. You needed this, just a few moments to gather your thoughts and put everything into order. You watch as Pauline continues to play with her new friends, and you can't help but notice that she's particularly taken with a young boy with blonde hair and a very dirty striped t-shirt. You keep your eyes focused on them with a raised eyebrow, and you can't help but smile with amusement as you watch Pauline running after him like a besotted puppy. For a moment you think that the boy should be grateful he's not older, otherwise you'd probably despise him for being the object of your daughter's affection.

You take your eyes off them for a moment and find yourself looking down at the phone clasped in your hand. You tap it against your thigh, nerves making your fingers jittery, and you bite your lip in thought. You think back to your conversation with Brendan over the weekend again, for what seems like the millionth time, and you can't get his words out of your head. You wonder if he meant it when he said he didn't want to see you again. You couldn't blame him if he did, because the way you run hot and cold would be enough to put even the most determined man off, but something in your gut tells you he didn't. After all, you may have been the one to contact him first, but he was the one who replied, and actions speak louder than words.

Just as that thought sinks in you head you hear a wail coming from in front of you. You turn around to find your daughter walking towards you with tears streaming down her cheeks and you immediately grab her hand as she approaches and pull her towards you,

"What's the matter?" You ask, as your eyes dart over her body for bruises, "what happened? I only took me eyes off you for a minute!"

"H-he..." you can barely hear through her choked sobs, "he pushed me!"

You look at her with a furrowed brow,

"Who did?" You ask.

"Him!" She points back at the young boy with blonde hair, the one she was so obviously besotted with, and you feel like a protective bear as you growl in his direction, "he pushed me."

"Why?" You ask.

"I don't know," she shrugs, sniffing back tears.

You raise your eyebrows and look over at the young boy, but he's walking over to his mother and they're leaving. You look at your daughter's tear-stained cheeks and suddenly you know exactly what to say. The kind of things all Fathers say to their daughter to stop their hearts being broken by boys.

"He only pushed you because he likes you," you find yourself spluttering, and suddenly you feel like you're in a rom-com, and she's staring at you with wide eyes.

"What?" She asks, tears giving way to confusion.

"That's why he pushed you, innit?" You say, but she's still confused, so you hold her hands and explain, "sometimes, when a boy likes a girl or a girl likes a boy, they'll try and hide their feelings by bein' nasty to them."

She looks at you and a heavy silence lies in the air. As soon as the words leave your mouth, you think of Brendan and your cheeks redden. A heavy weight falls down upon your chest and you feel like you've just been drenched in cold water. You didn't realize when you started down his conversation that you'd end up having some sort of deep, internal revelation. You think back to your conversation with the Irishman, when he told you to let go...when he pushed you away. You swallow as you look into your daughter's eyes,

Pauline doesn't seem to care anymore. She's stopped crying and is distracted by a speckled grey pigeon that's just landed beside the bench you're sitting on. You wish you could forget about things quite so easily.

Before you have time to think anymore, your phone starts to vibrate in your pocket. You pull it out, heart racing, and you don't even bother to look down at the name calling because you're too grateful for the distraction. You look up at your daughter and her tears are gone, but there's a solid lump in your throat from where your words have caught. After a moment, you answer,

"Hello?"

"Hey Ste!" Danny's voice chirps down the other end and it does nothing to help your frazzled nerves. You immediately wonder why he'd be calling you, and there only seems to be one possible answer, "How you doing?"

"F-fine, thanks," you reply, "you?"

"Great!" He says, "Just got out of work there now."

You remain silent, too terrified of what this conversation could potentially be about to reply.

"I was just calling to ask a favour," he finally says.

You feel your breath catch in your throat for a moment as your heart starts beating. This must be about the Dublin trip. It _must be._

"Yeah?" You ask.

"Well, you know about the Dublin conference, right?" He says, "One of the guys pulled out and we've got an extra space."

You don't know what to think, but everything in your nervous system is buzzing with electricity. You swallow,

"OK..."

"Yeah, so I was wondering," you hold your breath in anticipation as he hesitates,"Well..."

"Yes?" You prompt.

"Argh, Ste I hate to ask you this," he says, "but is there any way you'd be able to fill in? I know I said you could stay home with your family, but this is a big meeting! Normally we wouldn't ask workers in your sector to do it, but we could do with the help and you said you were up for it so...what do you say?"

Your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it. You look at Pauline and you remember telling yourself you would try, you would be better, but the temptation is so intense. You remember the words you uttered a mere moment ago to your daughter, about how people pretend to feel differently when you care about someone, and you wonder if that's what Brendan was doing when he told you to let it go. Perhaps it's not what he wants. It's sure as fuck not what you want. You feel like you're standing at a cross-roads, and the decision you make is vital.

"I- I thought I was needed in the office?" You voice is trembling.

"You are, but this is more important and we need our best team players!" Danny explains, "I'll hand over your work to someone else."

You can barely contain your emotions. You don't know how to feel and Pauline is staring at you, a living, breathing reminder of every reason you should say no. You think about Amy and you're sure your marriage won't be able to survive more time apart.

"So, will you do it?" Danny asks.

The clock is ticking. You know Danny won't wait any longer for an answer and you can't ask him to wait until tomorrow, out of fear that he'll give the space to someone else. You should say no, you know you should, everything within you screams out to say no...

But when you open your mouth to speak, you can't form the words...

"Yes..." you finally reply, heart thumping behind your ribs, "Yeah, I'll do it."

"Great," Danny says, "we leave three weeks from today! You know the drill."

"Yeah," you say, "I'll be there."

"That's the spirit!" He says, "Thanks Ste, I really appreciate this."

"Bye," you reply, ending the call, unable to speak anymore.

You wonder what the Hell you've gotten yourself into. The Irishman made it clear you weren't welcome, but you had to do it, had to say yes to Danny's offer. You _have_ to see him again and you couldn't risk the possibility of never getting another chance. You feel a wash of guilt as you look at your daughter, and in a moment of horrifying clarity you realize that you just made a choice. A choice between being a good father, a good husband, and going back to Ireland to see a man you barely know...and you chose him. It seems so preposterous to you that you would ever do such a thing, impossible even, and you realize in that moment that you aren't the man you thought you were. You don't even know who you are anymore, haven't known yourself since the moment you met him.

You walk home slowly and for once Pauline is quiet. The silence gives you a chance to ponder over what you're going to tell Amy. You remember what happened last time you went to Dublin and you know she won't be happy with the news that you're going back, but she has to find out eventually and it's better she hear it sooner rather than later.

When you finally arrive at your house, your heart is beating. You walk in and find Amy sitting in the living room watching TV. Some pointless soap you don't pay attention to is on, but she is riveted and it takes a few moments for her to acknowledge your presence.

"Get some fresh air?" She asks, eyes etched to the television.

"Yeah," you smile weakly, "what you watching?"

"I don't know what it's called, but this woman is in hospital and just found out her fiancé is having an affair!"

"Sounds dead good," you reply, sarcastically.

"Hey!" She turns and throws a small, stuffed pillow at you, which you dodge, "better than the stuff you watch."

You laugh, but it doesn't reach your eyes. You're too nervous to speak, so you just stand there with Pauline's hand in yours. When Amy notices that you're frozen to the spot, she raises her eyebrow,

"You all right?" She asks.

"Yeah, fine," you shrug.

"Well you don't look it," she furrows her brow, "what happened?"

You draw in a deep breath and try to keep calm.

"Actually, I have something to tell you..."

Better to get it over with.

She turns towards you, sensing this is a serious conversation, and after a moment you tell Pauline to go upstairs to her room. You watch as she ponders up the stairs, tiny legs struggling on even the smallest heights. When she's out of sight, Amy asks,

"What is it?"

"Well, I got a call from my manager while I was out," you explain, trying to ease her into the subject, "and he just asked me for a favour."

You can see her face twisting with every word, like she knows what's about to come out of your mouth. She's all-too-aware of what a 'favour' in your job entails.

"And..."

"and..." you continue, "well, you see, there's this dead important meeting being held in three weeks and someone dropped out...so he asked me to fill in."

Her eyes are unreadable as she casts them over you, drinking you in. You swallow nervously under the scrutiny and hope she doesn't see right through you.

"Where is it?" She asks.

"It's in Dublin," you say, then hold your breath in preparation.

She's silent for a moment, then asks,

"How long?"

"A couple of weeks," you explain, mouth dry, "maybe more."

You expect her to throw a fit at your response. The last time you were only gone for a week and your marriage suffered greatly. You tell yourself that Brendan doesn't even want to see you and that nothing will probably happen, but you know you won't be able to stop yourself when you're there. You know the pull is too strong, because you can feel it even from here. However, Amy simply looks at you. No yelling, no screaming, just her eyes on yours.

"OK," she finally replies, and you wonder if you've misheard her.

"What?" You ask, dumbfounded.

"I said OK," she shrugs, "if that's what you have to do."

You let out a long breath of air from your lungs. You can't believe how easy that was. How absolutely seamless.

"Really?" You can't help yourself from asking.

"Yes, really," she let's out a laugh at your shock, "I understand. Ste, I know I said you're married to your job, but if you're really needed then I understand."

You let out a huff of breath and can't help but smile at her. In fact, so overwhelmed by her response are you that you can't help yourself from walking over, sitting down beside her and wrapping your arms around her. The guilt makes you pull her extra close. When you let go, she's smiling warmly into your eyes.

"It'll be fine," she says, then turns to look back at the TV, still wrapped in your arms, "I'll just have to take a couple of weeks off work."

You freeze.

"What?" You ask, confused.

"Well, we're coming with you, right? It's only a few weeks," She says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the World. However, your silence prompts her to look back at you. She furrows her eyebrows when you don't respond, "You remember what happened last time, don't you? Ste, our marriage can't survive more time apart, I barely get to see you as it is...you know that, right?"

You stare at her, eyes wide, and you're rendered speechless. Never in your wildest dreams did you imagine she'd think that she and Pauline would be coming with you. She's staring at you, willing you to say something, and you open your mouth to tell her she can't come with you. That the idea is the most absurd thing you've ever heard! However, when your lips part, the words you're looking for don't come out,

"Of course!" You find yourself saying, "Of course I know that, I'm not stupid!"

She beams, eyes sparkling,

"Perfect," she replies, "you're always going on about how lovely it is, it's about time I saw it! Me and Pauline can explore the sights while you're at work!"

"Great," you nod and smile, because that's all you can think to do, "sounds perfect."

Amy kisses your lips and turns in your arms to watch the TV again. Your eyes remain fixed to the set and you watch quietly as the woman screams at her cheating fiancé from a hospital bed.

Xoxoxoxo

_Hopefully the Brendan-less chapters weren't too painful ;) _


	19. Chapter 19

_Thank you for the reviews for the previous chapter, they mean everything. _

**In Another Life**

**Chapter 19**

In the days following your agreement to go to Dublin you find your nerves more torn and frazzled than ever. You can barely sleep and Amy's meticulous preparations have done nothing to help matters. You tried several times to convince her not to go, but she would hear none of it, and that only fueled your anxiety. However, nothing came close to the stress of the nightmares.

Every night continuously, like punch after punch to the head, those nightmares haunt your sleep. You used to get them a couple of times a week at most, but now they're never-ending and more powerful than ever. The lack of sleep only makes you more tense during the waking hours. You try to cope with it for as long as you can, functioning on little sleep and high stress, but it's a week before you're due to leave that you reach breaking point.

The dream starts out as normal, with you standing at the bottom of the balcony. You hear the gunshot and they're holding you back, and the man on the balcony falls to the ground. You break free and run, stumbling on the steps as you go, and when you reach the top you fall to your knees beside him and hold his face in your hands. There's tears in your eyes as you brush strands of blood-soaked hair back on his head, but when you look down at his face you pause. You recognize that face. You recognize the fine lines around his eyes, the blood coating a full moustache, the stubbled mouth. You sit back, eyes wide, and your mouth falls open as you lift his head in your hands to inspect him closer. There are screaming voices behind you, telling you to let go, but you can't hear them. The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your whole body shivers. A name falls from your lips. _Brendan. _

You wake up in bed, covered in sweat, and your body is shaking as you rip the covers from you without a second thought and pull on your jeans. Amy is reaching out to you, asking what's wrong, but you don't listen as you run downstairs and grab your keys with shaky hands. You walk out the door and into the car, fingers trembling as you push the key in the ignition and reverse back. You drive recklessly, weaving in and out of lanes and as you pull up at the familiar building you wipe stray flecks of tears from your eyes. You need to talk to someone about this and there's only one person you can trust. One person who is obligated not to say anything.

You take a moment to compose yourself, pushing your hands back through your hair. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the driving mirror and you look a mess, black rings circled under your eyes and skin sleek with sweat.

You pull yourself from your car and walk into the brick building that you've consistently visited the past seven weeks since you've been home. At the reception desk you ask for Lynn and the lady tells you to take a seat. While you wait, your leg is shaking violently, heel tapping on the linoleum floor.

She appears in less than ten minutes, dressed in a smart lemon suit and with a pair of red-framed spectacles on her face. She smiles,

"Ste?" She looks at you, and one look at your face makes her smile drop, "come on in."

You follow her into the office and close the door behind you. You look around, paranoid in case someone sees, and when you're satisfied the room is secure you sit down. Meanwhile, Lynn has already seated herself on her revolving chair and is inspecting you carefully. Her brow is furrowed with concern.

"How are you, Ste?" She asks, tone soft and inviting confidence.

She knows why you're here, because you're making good on her offer to listen to you and never repeat what she's told.

You swallow. You're still feeling shell-shocked from the dream and you haven't had time to fully wake up. You shake your head,

"Not good," you mutter, hardly able to get out the words.

She's silent, letting you take your time, and after a moment she says,

"Would you like to talk about it?"

You feel your body tense. You want nothing more than to talk about it, but you realize doing so will make it real. Still, you can't continue on like this. You can't cope with these dreams anymore and ever since meeting the Irishman they've only gotten worse. You assure yourself that she's a professional and, as if reading your mind, she says,

"You know everything you say here is confidential, Ste," she nods, "I can't say anything you don't want me to."

You let out a long shaky breath and close your eyes. It's now or never. You nod,

"Yeah..." you whisper, "I want to talk about it."

"OK," she replies, "is there anything specific you want to discuss?"

Your mind is racing. You find yourself nodding, then shaking your head, and everything feels like a confusing mess.

"I don't even know where to begin," you shrug.

"Well, why don't you start with what's troubling you now?"

You look up at her and her chin is resting on her hand, regarding you thoughtfully. You feel like a puzzle that she's trying to figure out.

"I-it's complicated," you lick your lips, "I...I've been having these..." you throat constricts, but she nods encouragingly and you feel the strength to go on. You need it to end, and the only way you can get them to is by telling someone, "I've been having these dreams."

"Hmm," she nods, "what kind of dreams?"

"Nightmares," you say, "the same ones. Over and over, every single night for years."

"When did these dreams start?" She asks.

"When I was nineteen," you nod, "it was only every so often at first, I thought they'd go away in time but they haven't... it's the same thing every time."

"Mmhmm," she nods, face twitching in thought, "what happens in them?"

This is the part you don't want to talk about. You've never told anyone what happens in your dreams before, not even Amy, and everything within you is trying to keep it in but you can't anymore. You want them to end now, you've had enough, and now that your brain is conjuring Brendan's face in them you've become more determined to get help. If you don't, you'll go crazy.

"It starts with me standing at the bottom of a balcony," you begin, and it's like someone has flipped a switch inside you and you can't stop, "I'm looking up at this...person...standing on a balcony and I can just tell something bad is going to happen to them. There's police around and they're all armed, and it's like...I just _know. _Then a gun goes off and it hits them, and I'm screaming out for help... but I'm being held back. I try to run to them, to help, y'know? But everyone is holding me back."

"That sounds awful," she nods, her tone understanding, but you can tell she doesn't get it and it frustrates you, "do you recognize this person? Is it someone from your real life?"

"I don't think so..." your heart is bursting, "I don't know..."

You can't finish the sentence and you can tell she notices your hesitation. She leans back in her seat,

"What is it about the person, Ste?" She asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Is it someone you care about?" She asks.

"I don't..." you shake your head, more confused than ever, "I don't know."

"Well you must care about them," she says, "if you're trying to save them."

"I think..." you try to stop the words, but they're out of your mouth before you can, "...I think I love them."

"Is it Amy?" She asks.

"...No."

She stops for a moment, frozen to the spot. You regret the words immediately, but they're out now and you can't take them back. All you can do is wait. Suddenly, you see something shift in her expression,

"When you say this person is someone you love," she says, "do you mean a platonic love, or..."

Your face prickles with heat and you look away. Your silence tells her everything.

"So...you feel guilt that you love another woman in your dreams?" She tries to clarify, but you can feel your whole body getting tense with each word.

"I..." you breathe, you can't go back now, but this is the hardest part, "that's the thing...it's not a woman."

You see her visibly flinch and her eyebrows raise. She wasn't expecting it, and now you feel the walls closing in and you get up to your feet. You can't stay here.

"I'm sorry, I can't do this," you go towards the door, but she's shouting out to you before you leave.

"Ste don't!" She calls out, "wait, please."

You stop, hand pressed on the handle, and you rest your head on the pale wood of the door. You close your eyes.

"Please," her voice is soft, "sit down."

You slowly turn and her expression is sympathetic. You want to flee, but equally as much you want to stay. You've come this far. You slowly sit back down.

"So...in your dream the person you love is a man?"

You let out a breath and shake your head, irritated even though you know it's not her fault.

"Yes."

"But you don't recognize him?"

You contemplate telling her about seeing Brendan's face the night before, but you opt for the simpler option,

"No."

She's quiet, thoughtful, and her next words shock you,

"Have you ever had thoughts about men before?" she asks.

"No," the lie is out of your mouth, an automatic reflex.

One look at her face tells you she doesn't believe you.

"Ste...you have to be honest. If not with me then with yourself," she says.

You swallow, nerves clenching your stomach. You think of Brendan.

"There's...there's one man..." you whisper, eyes on the floor because you can't look at her, "I think about him sometimes." _All the time._

"You care about this man?" She nods, encouraging you.

"I suppose..." you mutter, "I suppose you could say that."

"You're attracted to him?"

Your muscles are tense, anger filling your gut, and in your mind you think of her as an enemy, trying to get under your skin and push your buttons. You try to force down the irritation swelling within you.

"I hardly know him," you bite on the words.

"That doesn't really mean anything though, does it?" She smiles softly, eyes filled with empathy, "How do you know this man?"

"I met him on a plane," you say, twitch seizing your cheek, "I was...I was going on a work trip and I met him on the plane. We spent the week together."

"Steven," she says, and the use of your full name makes you close your eyes, "did something happen between you and this man?"

You feel a prick of something behind your eyes. Her questions are too personal, too intimate, and with every word you feel yourself breaking. Slowly, reluctantly, you nod your head.

"Does Amy know?" She asks, voice trying to hide whatever personal opinions she feels about the situation.

"No,I don't want her to," you mumble, then desperately add, "I didn't mean for it to happen."

"I'm not here to judge you, Ste," she says, trying to calm you, "I just want to know what's going on."

You feel your heartbeat slow with her words and you nod.

"Do you still see this man?" She asks.

"No," you say, "He lives in Ireland."

"Do you plan to see him again?"

You glance at her and you're acutely aware of the fact the you're going back in a week for work, and not only that but you are bringing your family.

"I...I'm going to Dublin in a week for work," you leave out the part about you doing everything in your power to make it happen, "Amy and Pauline are coming with me."

"Ste..." there's something in her voice that sounds like a warning, "be honest, do you plan to see him again?"

"No..." you lie.

You look at her and once again she knows you're being dishonest, and the twist of her mouth makes you snap,

"_I don't know,"_ you say, exasperated, "I just...It's like I can't see straight when I'm with him."

She's silent, watching you from over her glasses.

"I just don't know what to do," you sigh, a fine tremor running through your body, "what should I do?"

Maybe this is what you've wanted all along. Someone, anyone, to just give you an answer. Someone to tell you what you have to do, because you sure as fuck don't know. Everything you do only seems to make the situation worse.

"I can't tell you what to do," she says, and you feel your body deflate with disappointment, "but I would recommend you don't see this man while you are in Dublin. Not until you figure out what it is you want."

You look up at her and she doesn't realize what it is she's asking of you. She's asking for the impossible.

"I weren't going to," you lie.

"Ste...please take my advice. Give yourself some time to figure things out," she says, "if the problems in your marriage are as a result of your feelings for this man, then your wife deserves to know."

You can't help but think she's dropped her professional facade for a moment, and her tone holds a determination to make you understand. Still, with every word all you can see is your life crumbling before your eyes. Tell Amy? You can't think of anything more terrifying.

"But...I can't. What if she takes Pauline away?" Your voice quivers at the thought, "I don't know what I'd do. Besides, I'm not..."

There's a silence. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth.

"Not what?" She asks, though her tone implies she already knows what you were going to say.

"I'm not...like that, am I?" You don't know if you're trying to convince her or yourself, "I'm not gay."

"I see..." she says, "what about the man you have these feelings for? Is he?"

"Yeah," you nod, then sigh and press your hands to your temples,"he's just gotten into my head, ya know? He's messed it up. He's messed everything up."

"Ste," she says softly, making you look at her, "it's not wrong to be attracted to men, but it is wrong to carry on the way you are. You need time to figure things out for yourself."

You nod, trying to take in her advice, but you can barely hear her above the buzz of your own thoughts.

"And what about the nightmares?" You ask, "How do I make them stop?"

She looks at you for a moment and cocks her head,

"Well, if I were to take a guess I would say these recurring dreams sound a lot like PTSD," she says.

"What?" You ask.

"Post traumatic stress disorder," she explains, pulling out a leaflet from her drawer and handing it to you, "have you ever experienced a traumatic event in your life?"

"Not that I can think of," you shake your head and scan your eyes over the leaflet, "nothing like this."

"I see," she says, "it's strange, all the symptoms are present. Severe anxiety brought on by a traumatic incident. It's just the incident is occurring in your dreams."

You swallow down a tight lump in your throat and look up at her,

"How do I get rid of them?" You ask.

"I'll refer you to your doctor," she pulls out a pad and begins scribbling, "he can put you on medication to help with the nightmares and stress," she hands you the note and you grab it like a lifeline.

"Thanks," you smile half-hardheartedly, "really. I appreciate it."

"No problem," she returns the smile.

You stand and prepare to leave, having come for what you came for, but when you reach the door you hear her voice sound behind you.

"And Ste," you turn around to face her, "remember what I told you. I recommend you don't visit that man until you sort out what you want and talk to Amy. It's not fair on her and it's not fair on you."

Now you know she's not being professional, and there's a steely edge to her voice. You wonder if maybe she's annoyed that she's wasted her time trying to help a marriage, when the husband is a lost cause. You nod,

"I know."

_One Week Later_

As the plane ascends into the air, your heart is thumping in your chest. Three weeks have passed with the speed of a lightning strike, and only now that you're on the plane do you realize the scope of what you've committed to. Pauline is sitting on your knee, bouncing up and down as you point out the tiny window at the scenery below; a vast expanse of contrasting green and yellow shades melting into a sea of deep blue. You feel anxious at the sight. Such a long way down. So far to fall.

Amy is beside you in the middle seat and you listen as she argues with the air hostess about the price of a drink she's just ordered. You want to tell her to let it go, but she's feisty and the stress of trying to get everything organized these past few weeks has caused her to be more irritable and irrational than usual. You briefly think about the last time you were on a plane to Dublin, the first time you met him, but you don't allow yourself to dwell on the thought for too long. You run your fingers through Pauline's blonde hair and hold her close to you. With her in your arms, the tension in your chest eases.

You touchdown at the airport at 11:00 a.m., half an hour later than you expected to, and the struggle of trying to keep Pauline and Amy both on track sends your heart-rate soaring. You gather all your bags together in a fluster, pulling them from the overhead compartment. For a brief moment you remember when the Irishman pulled your luggage free for you the day you met him and you can't help but feel in awe of how oblivious you were back then. How blissfully unaware that this is what would come from that one, fateful day.

You don't want to keep taking this trip down memory lane, indulging in thoughts of him, because it feels ridiculous and makes you act like a love-struck school-girl, but you can't help yourself. You feel so close to him just being here and after almost two months of trying to get over what you experienced with him, the emotions you feel at being back where it all began sends a jolt through you. However, you remind yourself that you're here to work.

The journey from the airport to the hotel feels like a three-ring circus as you try to keep Pauline under control in the taxi. Meanwhile, Amy is bombarding you with complaints, telling you that you shouldn't have let her eat sweets on the plane. You can't help but roll your eyes and as you peer up from the back seat, you catch the taxi-man giving you a sympathetic stare in the rear-view mirror. You sigh and look out the window.

Your heart stops as you recognise the old building just within your sights. Your eyes widen as you take in the familiar cracks and crevices under the daylight sun, along with the emblazoned writing along the front, naming it as the 'Fitzcarraldo' pub. Not one lick of paint or fleck of dust has changed on that building. You wonder if the man inside has...

You wait with held breath as the taxi-man slowly rolls by, wondering if you're going to catch a glimpse of him, but the pub is out of sight before you even have the chance to register it. Your heart starts beating again. You hear something calling out beside you, and it's only after a moment that you realize that Amy is speaking to you;

"Ste!" She says, hands on your shoulder.

"What?" You reply, shaking your head from its daze, "What is it?"

"I think we're here."

You turn your head and look out the window at a tall, plain white building with glass paneled windows along the front. You immediately recognise it as the hotel your company has set you up in. Yo asked Danny if it would be a problem bringing your wife and kids with you on a business trip, and he told you it wouldn't as long as they stay out of the way and you pay for them. As far as Danny was concerned, your family weren't an issue as long as you did your work. However, now that they're here, you suddenly realize that their presence is going to be one of the most distracting things on this trip.

Already they're proving to be a hassle and you haven't even started working. Not to mention the added distraction of being so close to that damn pub. You only passed it a few moments ago, which means it's tantalizingly close-by. You don't know why you're so surprised, since your company picks hotels that are close to the company boardrooms. Your previous hotel had been selected for the same reason.

After what feels like an eternity of gathering your bags and calming Pauline down for you and Amy to sort yourselves out, you finally find yourselves in your room. When you first walked in you couldn't help but notice that it wasn't as nice or as big as the previous room you had, but it was still tastefully decorated with beige hues and splashes of red on the curtains and the bed-spread. The room had one king-sized bed and one single for Pauline. You couldn't help but be thankful that Pauline would be in the same room as you and Amy, so there would be no risk of your wife trying to sleep with you.

"Oh my God, look at that view!" You hear Amy gasp, "it's so beautiful!"

You walk over to the window and look over the sights. You can see the Liffey river from here. You look across the vast expanse of greenery and cement and stone-work and it looks like a still from an old movie. However, you can't help but think that you preferred the view from your old hotel room better.

"Dead nice," you say, smiling at her as she turns to you, "there's some great places 'round this part of town."

"You should show us around," she nudges your arm with her elbow, "give this one a chance to work off some of her sugar-high."

You turn around to Pauline, who is currently jumping on her single-bed and destroying the cushions.

"Oi, that's gonna cost me a fortune if you break it, that is!" You berate her, "now get down! Stop messing about."

Her face drops as she slowly climbs down off the bed.

OK...so you're a little stressed. One look at Amy tells you that she knows it, too. You sigh.

"Come on, Ste," she moves behind you and starts rubbing your shoulders, easing out the tension, "let's take a look around. You don't start working 'til tomorrow, right?"

"Right," you say, "but Danny says he wants to talk to everyone to give them a run-down of-"

"Ste! For God's sake would you stop thinking about work for one minute," she scolds you, but her tone is somewhat playful as she slaps your arm, "one hour out of your busy schedule won't kill ya!"

You watch as she walks over to Pauline and picks her up in her arms, and you look at them both as they stare back at you with matching blue eyes, and you find yourself breaking.

"Oh all right," you smile softly, "I suppose an hour won't kill us."

"Great!" She beams, walking over to kiss your cheek, then whispers with a glint in her eye, "Now I can find out what you get up to when we're not around."

She says it lightly, but you can't help the nervous thud of your heart as she steps away and gathers her things together. You let out a shaky breath when you're sure she's far enough away that she won't hear.

As Amy gets ready a knot of tension begins to form in your stomach, wrapping around your heart until you're sure it's going to squeeze the life from it. You worry about taking your family out to explore this city, knowing that you're within walking distance from the pub. Knowing you could potentially walk into Brendan Brady at any time because these are the streets he walks daily. This is his area. However, you can't dwell on such fears, because if you do then you'll never be able to leave your hotel room.

The task of getting Amy and Pauline out of the suite and down into the lobby is surprisingly easy, given the trauma you dealt with trying to get from the airport to the hotel. At one point you're forced to pick up Pauline as she threatens to run away for the millionth time since you arrived. The excitement of being somewhere new has gone to her head you imagine, as this is the first time she has been to another country, but you're going to have a heart attack if she keeps trying to run off on her own.

You stand in the lobby and wait for Amy, who has fallen behind after you were forced to run after your daughter. The area is spacious and the design of it is simple, yet decadent at the same time. The floors are smooth and look like they're made of marble, and when you look up the ceiling you suddenly notice there's a glass roof.

Amy finally catches up with you and immediately pulls Pauline close, taking her hand in a firm grasp. You only half-listen as she scolds her, telling her if she runs off in the middle of Dublin then she's going to get lost. You're too busy planning out your route to pay full attention, wondering how you're going to show Amy and Pauline around with minimal risk of running into the Irishman. Suddenly, with a shot of blissful surprise, you realize exactly where you can take your wife and child with minimal risk of running into Brendan.

"Right, so how do you feel about checking out the shops?" You ask casually, knowing what the answer will be.

Her eyes light up at the word. If there's anything you know about your wife, it's that she loves to shop. Also, if there's anything you know about Brendan, it's that the place you're least likely to find him is shopping in a bunch of womens clothes stores.

"But I thought you hated shopping?" She asks, following as you lead her out the front doors of the hotel and into the streets, "you hit your head or something?"

"I don't hate it," you lie, because you do, "besides, I'm not showing meself around, I'm showing my two girls around!"

"Wow, normally I have to drag you to the shops!" She smiles.

"Yeah, yeah, do you want to go or not?" You ask.

"You kidding? Of course I do!"

You let out a small breath of relief and smile,

"Thought so."

You walk down cobbled side streets, taking a short-cut. On the way you point out places you've visited, as well as telling them various things you've discovered about Dublin during your time there. After a while you finally make it to the city centre, which is thriving and bustling with life. You feel a sense of relief that it's unlikely you will see the Irishman through such a dense crowd. The odds seem to be in your favor, but you keep an eye out just in case. Part of you desperately wants to see him, even just once, but you're still very aware of the last conversation you had with him. He might take one look at you and tell you to get lost, but you're willing to risk it for one final moment with him.

Amy has already dragged Pauline with her into the first shop she sees, which seems to be an up-market place with well-dressed mannequins placed in the windows. Inside the shop, the overall color-scheme is beige and neutral. You sigh. It's going to be a long day.

By the time you've looked around several shops, you're beginning to think it was a bad idea to bring your wife to this part of town. Granted, you have not seen the Irishman, but you also feel like you've dragged yourself into an endless cycle of shopping that seems impossible to pull Amy out of. Now you find yourself waiting outside a dressing room in a shopping mall in the middle of town, holding the clothes that Amy has cast off whilst trying to stop Pauline from creating havoc with the mannequins. You roll your eyes.

"Are you almost done?" You ask Amy.

"Almost," she calls back over the blare of the fitting-room music, "I just have to try on this red dress then we can go."

"OK," you say, trying to keep an eye on your chaotic daughter, "it's just I'm trying to keep an eye on Pauline and it's becoming impossible!"

"Ha, maybe now you can appreciate what I have to go through, hm?"

You marvel at how she can be in the middle of trying on countless outfits and yet she still has time to throw that in your face. Luckily, after a while, Pauline runs into the dressing room to try on clothes with Amy.

You wait with the clothes in your arms, tapping your foot and looking at your watch.

Suddenly a door to one of the dressing rooms opens, and unfortunately it's not your wife's. Your eyes grow wide as a woman steps out and you have no time to hide before her eyes meet yours. Her hair is large, blonde and her breasts appear bigger than ever before as she walks out in a tight, zebra-print coat and orange top. You can't help but wonder where this woman got her fashion sense. She is so unlike the beige of your World that you can't even relate to her. You panic as you see the realization settle on her face as she looks at you, then her mouth opens and she raises an eyebrow in your direction. Your heart is pounding. You have no idea what to do, so you simply stand there, clothes in your arms, and say nothing. You knew you wouldn't see Brendan in these shops, but you didn't count on running into his sister.

"Oh my God," she smiles, then walks over to you, steps tentative, "hi!"

You can't even speak, too many thoughts are running through your head. All of a sudden you realize that this woman could potentially tell Brendan that you're here. In fact, you know she will. The last time you saw her you could see in her eyes that she suspected something, that she knew too much, and the thought of it makes your heart drop. You silently pray that Amy doesn't walk out.

"Do you remember me?" She asks, wary of your silence.

You could lie and say you don't, but you know she wouldn't believe you. How could you not remember her? You shake your head and try to muster a smile,

"Y-yeah," you say, "course I do, sorry, Cheryl right?"

"The one and only," she says, "what brings you back to Dublin? Business? Pleasure?"

"Business," you reply, and she scrunches up her face.

"Awk well, I'm sure there will be time for you to squeeze some fun in," she winks, "you know what they say about all work and no play!"

"I don't know," you reply, "don't know if I'll have time, but maybe."

She smiles at you, then suddenly you see her eyes drift to the clothes in your arms. You look down at them, then back up at the blonde, and your body freezes.

"You waiting on someone then?" She asks.

"Uhhh..."

"Ste!" Amy calls from behind the curtain, then you see an arm pop out with a pair of jeans clutched in her hand, "could you grab me another pair of these jeans in a smaller size."

You quickly grab the jeans, anything to prevent Amy from stepping out and seeing Cheryl,

"No problem honey!" You call back, practically shouting over the loud music blaring through the fitting rooms, "I'll do that now."

You look at Cheryl, heat prickling your face, and a spark of realization clouds her eyes,

"So, is that..." She doesn't need to finish the sentence for you to know what she means.

"That's Amy," you say, "my wife."

"Oh," she nods, a cloud drifting over her face, "you two over here by yourselves or-"

"We got our daughter here too," you say, pointing to the fitting room where Amy is, "she likes to try on the dresses too, even though they're too big...she's practically drowning in them, ya know, but she's always trying on Amy's at home so when we're in the shop she can't...resist."

You watch Cheryl's face contort and you realize you're babbling, but you can't stop the stream of word-vomit from pouring out of your mouth. This woman has always had suspicions about you and her brother, you remember the look on her face the days you went into the pub looking for him, but only now that you're here with your wife and child do you realize how big a threat this woman poses to you. Who knows what she's been told...who knows what she might say?

"Anyway," you mumble, "I better go get these jeans for Amy."

"Oh, of course love," she smiles, bright and bubbly, "I need to get going here anyway, but stop by the pub sometime and I'll give you a free one on the house!"

She gives you a thumbs up and turns to walk away, but before you can breathe a sigh of relief you watch as she takes a few steps forwards, then turns around and comes back. You freeze,

"One question, love," she says, eyes lowered, "I know it's none of my business, but have you..."

She pauses for a moment, as if reluctant to finish, then she calmly composes herself and continues,

"Have you ran into-"

"STE!" Amy yells from behind the curtain before she can finish her sentence and you immediately feel like kissing her, "could you please get me those jeans? Pauline keeps trying to open the curtain and I'm standing here with no clothes on!"

"Going now!" You call back, then smile softly at Cheryl before squeezing past her, "Sorry, need to run. I'll see you around though, yeah?"

Before the blonde can answer you've already stepped out of the fitting rooms and into the main shop. You hide behind a rack of clothes and watch as the blonde walks out after you, curls piled on top of her head as she struts out the front door in massive heels. You let out a long sigh of relief and lean your head against the cool metal of one of the racks.

After a moment spent composing yourself, you grab the jeans for Amy and walk back into the fitting room.

Xoxoxox

That night you can barely contain your growing nerves.

You popped the pills you were prescribed by your doctor after visiting Lynn, one before you go to sleep, but now they don't seem to be doing any good. For the past week they've helped take the edge off your anxiety and they've completely stopped the dreams -a relief you're forever thankful for- but being in Dublin has created a tension within you that not even the pills can shake.

You were fine throughout the day. The distraction of showing Amy and Pauline around was enough to keep your thoughts occupied, but lying in bed now, your mind is given permission to wander. You can't keep him out of your head, and it's slowly driving you insane. You get up and walk around the room, try to block him out, but it's no use. Your chance meeting with Cheryl today hasn't made it any easier, either. You can't help but wonder if the blonde told Brendan you're here. You half-expected to get a message from the Irishman as the day progressed and you continued to check your phone at every available opportunity, but nothing. All the while the words of your counselor rotate in your head, telling you to stay away. _Let it go. _

You walk over to the window of your room and look out over the city. The streets are still buzzing. It's not late enough for places to be closed, so there's still a low murmur of life echoing in from outside, as cars make their way through the city on darkened roads. You turn and look at Amy, who is lying in bed, then your eyes drift to Pauline in her own. You wonder if being here is worth the potential cost. You're treading a very fine line and you're at risk of falling off the edge and into oblivion. You don't know what you expected to achieve by coming back here. You can tell yourself that you're here for work, but you know it's not true. You wanted to come. You wanted to see him again and now you're here and he's within walking distance, and the thought of that sends a shot of adrenaline through you.

Without thinking, you turn and pull on a pair of jeans over the boxers you were sleeping in, then tug a t-shirt on over your head. You don't give yourself enough time to think, you simply grab your keys and walk out the door. You don't leave a note for Amy, so if she wakes up then you'll have a lot of explaining to do. You can't think about her too much though, because if you think about her then you won't go, and you have to go. You _have_ to.

You quickly make your way out of the hotel and along the busy main-streets. You've never been down this way before, but instinct pulls you in the direction of the pub and eventually you find yourself standing outside it. The building fills you with terror as you approach. You can hear the buzz of noise inside and it's still busy as usual. You peer at the large wooden doors and you want to walk through, but something is stopping you. You briefly wonder how he's going to react when he sees you and the thought makes you panic, but you won't be able to leave without finding out.

After a moment you take a deep breath in and slowly let it out. Your body feels numb as you walk towards the door and slowly push it open.

The swell of life overwhelms you as you walk through the entrance and into the old pub. It smells the same as before, of beer nuts and stale sweat, and you quickly dodge out of the way as some drunken man comes hurtling towards you. His friend apologizes on his behalf, and you nod quickly to make him go away. Your heart can't handle drunk people, not now, not when it's already on the verge of stopping just by being here.

Your eyes search the room, barely able to focus through the large, swarming crowd. You begin to wonder if he's even here at all, but it doesn't take too long for you to finally spot him. Your pulse races as your eyes drift over his form, body hunched as he pulls pint after pint to demanding customers. The place is thriving and he looks tired as he tries to get everything done, but he still looks amazing. Even better than before. You wonder if time and distance has that effect, to make you want something more than ever.

He doesn't see you at first and you don't have it in you to take the final few steps towards the bar. You simply wait there, completely still, and after a few moments the Irishman gets enough time from pulling pints to look away from his work. He glances up and his gaze travels around the bar, taking in every inch of the place yet somehow skipping over you entirely. Your breath feels like an anchor caught in your throat and for one, crazed moment you feel like calling out to him, but you stop yourself. You've spent so much time away from this man that being within his presence feels like being home again, and the thought of that terrifies you more than anything else. More than being near him. More than the possibility of what may happen when he sees you. You wonder for a moment if he's even _going_ to see you as he stands, eyes tracing and inspecting the place, but it doesn't take long before he turns his head and in an instant his icy eyes are pinned on you. Your limbs lock into place under those eyes.

In the instant his gaze meet yours it feels like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. This is all you wanted, to be face-to-face with him once again and to know that you weren't crazy. That whatever it was you experienced with him in the months before was not just an illusion or something you spawned in your over-zealous imagination, but something real. Something you tried to tell yourself meant nothing, but now feels like it means everything.

His body is still as he peers at you through the crowd. He doesn't move an inch. Even his eyes look like two, vacant pools of blue resting upon you. You watch carefully, gauging his reaction, but he gives nothing away. Only when a patron grabs his attention, asking for a drink, does he reluctantly break his gaze to serve them. When he looks away, you let out a breath. You're vaguely aware that your hands are shaking, however you don't have time to think as you look over at the Irishman and see him taking off the towel draped over his shoulder and stepping out from behind the bar. His eyes are fixed on you and a knot of tension develops in your throat as he comes closer. You don't know if you even have the ability to speak anymore. Your body tenses, prepared to run if need be, but you don't. All you can do is watch.

He forces his way through the crowd as you stand, rooted to the spot. You may be the one who came here, but you can't help but think that he's the one in control. He's in control of everything that happens now, and part of you still isn't sure if he's even happy to see you. He told you not to come and here you are, defying his one wish, and you're only doing it because you're selfish. Because you couldn't _not _see him, even if it meant doing anything you could to get here. Even if it meant manipulating your boss or bringing your family with you. Even if it meant potentially losing everything.

When he finally reaches you, you try and suppress the tremor in your body. You stuff you hands in your pockets and fix your gaze to the floor, because you're not sure you can look at him. When he says nothing, you're forced to peer up into his eyes. He doesn't look happy.

You stand there for an unfathomable amount of time. It could be five minutes or five hours. Finally the Irishman nods his head to the side, gesturing for you to follow, and you comply as he turns and makes his way through the crowd towards the staffroom.

You walk into the small room and glance at the wall. You hear him shut the door behind you, then walk around until he is standing right in front you. His stance is powerful, feet planted firmly on the ground and arms folded as he cocks his head in your direction. For one brief moment you see a flicker in his gaze and you wonder if it means something, that he's nervous too, but apart from that he shows no signs of even caring that you're here. He must though. He must care, otherwise he'd still be behind the bar and not here in his office with you .

You lick your lips, nerves making your mouth dry, and you can feel words clawing at your throat because the silence is becoming too loud and all you want to do is fill it. However, you don't have time to because before you can say anything the Irishman speaks.

"I told you not to come," he says, voice a low growl in his chest, "I _thought_ I made myself clear."

"You did," you mutter, "I just-"

"Ye just what?" He steps towards you, all aggression, and his face is inches from yours.

"I just thought that-" Your words feel meek, and all of a sudden you feel ridiculous for coming. What did you expect after all this time?

"You thought I'd go weak at the knees?" The words sound like poison from his mouth, all calculated sarcasm to make you sound like a fool, "thought I'd be OK with being the 'bit on the side' while you play happy families?"

"That's not what it's like-"

"Cheryl told me," he growls, "She told me. You and the missus and that little one...she saw you."

You swallow. Your throat is so tight it feels like it's going to close over. You knew the moment you saw the blonde that she would tell Brendan. That he would find out.

"I just..." You look at the ground, then flick your gaze up to him. You mean it when you whisper, "I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry, ain't ye?" He growls.

You stand in silence.

"Does she know?" You ask finally, unable to stop yourself, "About...about us?"

"No," he says, "she doesn't."

"It's just she's always-"

"I haven't told her anything, Steven," he says, "it's all just suspicion."

You nod. You believe him.

"Does _she_ know?" He asks, and for a moment you don't know who he's talking about.

"Who?" You squint in confusion, but then you suddenly realize and your expression drops, "Oh..."

A silence follows. You don't know what to say, because Brendan knows that there's no way Amy could possibly know anything. You haven't even mentioned his name to her.

"I had to bring them," You mutter.

"You didn't have to bring them," he says, and once again his face is like a mask, "you didn't have to come at all."

"I was asked to come back for work," you argue, and it's a lie, because he doesn't know how you manipulated your boss so that you could come back, "that's why I'm here, OK?"

"Is it?" He steps a little closer and the sensation of his warm breath on your face shoots straight to your groin, "That's why you're here?" You feel something on your t-shirt, grazing up your side and your breath is erratic when you realize it's his finger-tips. You don't dare look down, "...in my office...in my pub?"

You look up into his eyes, lips moist and parted, and all you can focus on is his touch on your side. It's so light it can barely be construed as a touch at all, but you feel it. You would feel it even if his fingers were merely hovering over the fabric.

"Didn't think so," he whispers, then before you know it he pulls his hand away and steps around you. His sudden absence takes your breath away. When you finally compose yourself, he's sitting behind his desk filling out paperwork, barely making eye contact, "there's nothing for you here, Steven."

"What?" You mutter, and the sound of your own voice sounds pathetic to your ears, "but..."

"I don't want you anymore."

The words come out so effortlessly that you almost believe them.

"No...no, that's not true," you say, the only thing fueling your brazen words being the burning desire to believe that they are true.

"Excuse me?" he raises an eyebrow.

"If you didn't want me you wouldn't have answered my messages," you argue, walking over to his desk until your practically leaning into his face, "you responded every time."

He sighs, then shakes his head, but there's something in his expression you can't read. You look at his hand and his knuckles are white as he clenches his fist on the table. After a moment you see his expression change, eyes shift, and suddenly he's cold again.

"You thought I was responding because I was still interested?" He huffs out a bitter laugh, "Think about it, Steven. It was you every time. _You _contacting _me."_

"You said you didn't want to be the bit on the side," you mumble, "is that what this is all about?"

You can see a bubbling rage behind his eyes and suddenly he gets up and rounds the table. Your heart hammers in your throat as he approaches you, finger pointing into your chest.

"This isn't about me," he hisses, "You brought your _kid_ over here? For Christ's sakes Steven, are you insane? You have a kid!"

He pulls his finger from your chest and slides his hands through his hair, turning around as if unable to look at you. His words circle in your head, but you try to tune them out because if you start thinking about it too much then the guilt will force you to leave, and you can't. Not until you know that's what he wants.

"You didn't seem to care last time," you mumble, "it never stopped you, did it?"

He looks at you, eyes drinking you in. His expression is incredulous as he huffs out a laugh,

"You're unbelievable," he snorts.

"What?"

"Steven, you said it yourself, you have a family," he says.

"Do you seriously even care?" You feel like shouting, but it comes out a strained croak.

You know how you sound as your own words echo in the air. You sound like a selfish bastard who couldn't give two fucks about his family or his kid. You sound like someone who is willing to put his own needs above everything and everyone else. You sound like a man who'll say anything just to get what he wants. Maybe you are that man, but if you are then it is only because he has _made_ you that man.

He looks at you in silence for a moment, jaw set, then he says,

"I told you, I'm not in the business of breaking up families. You got a little girl that needs you, you said it yourself."

"But..." words have escaped you. Panic is rising in their place, "I can't...I don't..."

You pause for a moment, try to compose yourself, but everything feels like it's falling out of place. You don't know what you expected when you came here, but it wasn't this.

"This isn't a discussion, I said it's over," he snaps, "it was over the moment you got on that plane."

"It can't be," you walk over to him, but he stops you with his hand and pushes you back.

"Whatever you came back here for...forget it," he says.

"Why are you doing this?" You mumble, and it's weak and pathetic to your ears.

"I'm doing this because you weren't man enough to do it right the first time," he says, then walks over to the door and opens it."Go back to your family, Steven,"

"But..." You make a half-hearted attempt to try and make him understand, "but I want _you_..."

Your eyes glance over him and for a moment your gazes lock. There's no emotion on his face, but yours feels like it's breaking. You can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes, but you don't want him to see, so with a ragged exhale of breath you storm out the door and into the crowd.

You don't stop until you reach your hotel again.


	20. Chapter 20

**In Another Life **

**Chapter 20**

Despite having a dreamless sleep, you wake up feeling a dull ache in your chest. You can't stop thinking about the night before. You warned yourself that he might not want to see you, tried to prepare for it, but nothing could prepare you for the greeting you received from him. You'd never seen him so cold. You thought maybe some part of him would be glad you came back, considering how much he wanted you to stay, but you couldn't have been more wrong. You should have listened to your counsellor and let it be, but like a scab you had to pick at the wound, and now you're bleeding everywhere. Luckily when you arrived back that night, Amy was still sleeping. She didn't even know you were gone and you were glad because it meant she couldn't question you about where you were, or your flushed cheeks and the wet sheen in your eyes. If she had asked, you don't think you would've been able to keep control of yourself.

You shower and pull on your clothes quietly, making sure not to wake Pauline and Amy. The morning sun is spilling through the curtains in harsh, unforgiving rays. You look in the mirror and the faint light highlights the puffiness of your skin and the fine creases around your eyes. You fix your tie, hold your chin up and brace yourself for the day ahead.

When you arrive at work you make a conscious decision to throw yourself into the tasks you're assigned. It's difficult, more difficult than you expected, and you can't help yourself from letting your thoughts drift to him. Even now that you're in the same country as him, it still feels like an ocean lies between you. You're not sure if anything will change that now. You came back to see if he still wanted you and you got your answer. Now all you can do is try and fill in the next few weeks until you go back home and attempt, once again, to forget everything that ever happened between you both. The worst part of all is that you can't blame him. Why would Brendan want to be with someone who can't even accept who he is? You can't offer him a relationship. You can't offer him anything...but there's something about him that you just _can't _let go of.

"Ste!" You feel a clap on your shoulder and before you know it Darren is in front of you, pulling you from your daydream, "Good to see you here!"

"Where else would I be?" You huff out a laugh, continuing to photocopy spreadsheets, "This is where I work, remember?"

"Last time I spoke to you, you weren't coming," he reminds you, nudging your arm, "they couldn't do it without their star player, eh, could they?"

You smile with his praise, but he doesn't know that you practically begged them to let you join the team.

"I wouldn't say that," you scrunch up your nose and shake off his comments, "they just needed an extra hand, di'nt they?"

"Yeah well I'm glad you're here," he says, side-glancing an older man in a grey suit, "I thought I was going to be stuck around boring stiffs all day."

Sometimes being around Darren reminds you of how different you both are. In so many ways he's the exact opposite to you and yet you both get on well enough, but sometimes you can't help but feel that Darren would be happy with anyone as long as they could drink and act as his wing-man.

"So," Darren continues, while you stand and sort papers, "what's the night-life like here?"

"It's fine," you reply, trying not to think about the night you drank yourself into oblivion and ended up in a police station, with Brendan having to bail you out, "just like home really, innit?"

"Any good pubs?" He asks.

You feel your fingers tighten around the pages in your hands as you think of Brendan's pub. Everything seems to be reminding you of him. You grit your teeth,

"It's Ireland, Darren," you pull the pages from the photocopier and bang the edges against the counter to straighten them, "there's pubs everywhere. Haven't you heard of the Irish stereotype?"

"Huh?"

At that moment Danny walks in, round stomach wobbling and cheeks flushed red. He looks from you to Darren and his blue eyes grow wide,

"Guys, I've got an important job for you both!" He says, and he looks flustered, like he's been searching around for you both for a while, "You up for it?"

"Shoot," Darren says, leaning back against the photocopy machine.

"Sure," you reply, "what is it?"

"There's an associate flying in from America today and I need two of my best workers to take him out and give him a sales pitch," Danny says, "everything will be explained to you guys, we just need you to...well, basically to do some sucking up. Get him interested in the company we're representing."

You look at Danny with a raised eyebrow and try to suppress the sigh gathering in your throat. This is what you volunteered for, isn't it? Work. You begged and begged to come here to Dublin, but the real reason for your eagerness did not lie with uptight business men from America. The real reason doesn't even want to speak to you.

"You guys think you can do that?" He asks.

"Yeah," you nod, shaking Brendan from your thoughts. He doesn't want to see you, you need to get a grip, "course."

"Yeah," Darren nods, hands casually tucked in his pockets, "when do we leave?"

"Right now," he replies, motioning you both out the door whilst handing Darren a list of instructions, "this will tell you where to go, what to do, everything basically. All you guys have to do is not screw it up!"

"When have we ever let you down before?" Darren winks.

"Don't test me, Darren," Danny warns, then he looks at you, "keep an eye on him."

"Course," you say, shifting Darren out of the building, before he gets you both fired.

Xoxox

You head home immediately after the meeting, head swimming. In your hotel room Amy is not there, which gives you a chance to compose yourself. You go into the bathroom and douse your face with cold water, a habit which is becoming all too common for you lately. You look at your reflection and your eyes are wide, searching your face in the mirror. You grab a royal blue bath towel from the rail beside the sink and press it to your face, holding it for a moment. You let out a shaky breath into the material.

Brendan was there. He was there at the meeting and you were completely taken off guard by his presence. Of course he wasn't taking part, but he was there in the restaurant where it was happening.

You and Darren arrived not long after leaving your office, and you felt prepared after reviewing Danny's notes, before the client arrived. Everything seemed like it was going to go perfectly...that's when you saw him.

He walked in from off the street, dressed in a dark grey jumper with the sleeves rolled up mid-arm and a leather jacket slung over his back. You saw him as soon as he walked in through the door, but he didn't see you. That somehow made the situation worse, because it meant you could stare at him for as long as you wanted and he probably wouldn't even notice; wouldn't even know you were there at all. Meanwhile, Darren was prattling on in your ear, but all you could hear was white noise.

You felt hot blood in your cheeks as your heart rate began to increase. You wanted him to see you and you didn't at the same time. When the client arrived, a tall grey-haired man in a dark suit, you were barely coherent enough to say_ hello_.

You knew the meeting was destined to fail from that moment.

As the meeting kicked into gear, Darren was looking at you like you were crazy. You were babbling nonsense and barely focused on the task. Your eyes kept flicking over to the dark-haired man in the corner, drinking a black coffee in the shadows whilst reading a newspaper. You wondered if he did that everyday.

When you finally looked up at the crinkle-faced businessman in front of you, his expression told you all you needed to know about how you were behaving. When the meeting ended, you stood up and shook his hand, but even then you couldn't seem to tear your eyes from the Irishman. Darren enthusiastically shook the client's hand, as if apologising for your lack of effort, and as you sat back down you watched the associate leave, fully aware of the disaster that had taken place. Darren turned to you with needles in his gaze,

"What the Hell was that?" You'd never seen Darren look so flustered and irritated, "You sounded like an idiot!"

His anger was enough to pull you from your thoughts and you looked at him with wide eyes. You furrowed your brow and shook your head.

"Sorry, I wasn't thinking straight," you babbled.

"What's got into you? You were fine this morning," he looked at you, but you couldn't give him an answer, so he sighed, "let's just hope I talked enough for the both of us."

You both gathered your things to leave, but just as you did you looked over to Brendan one last time. Your heart felt like it was flat-lining. You wondered if he saw you at all in the time your were both there together, but the look of blissful ignorance on his face told you otherwise. You let your eyes travel over the smooth, pale skin of his forehead down to the stubbled cheeks and full moustache. It was the first time in a long time that you could look at him and have him not be angry. Not have his eyes peering at you with disdain. You let yourself indulge in it.

Then you walked away.

xoxox

You wait for Amy to come home and by the time she walks through the door you've composed yourself from the day's events. At one point you get a call from Danny asking how the meeting went, and you lied and said it went well. You wonder what Danny will do if he finds out you completely bombed, but you don't let yourself dwell on it for too long. When Amy comes in with Pauline, you greet her with exaggerated enthusiasm. You need to take your mind off today.

"Heya!" You smile, pulling Pauline onto the soft lounge chair beside you as she runs into your arms, "Where have you two been all day?"

"We've been seeing the sights, haven't we?" Amy smiles at her daughter, who looks up at you with a green-tinged mouth as she sucks on a boiled sweet, "More sights than we intended to, actually."

"What do you mean?" You ask, sensing the exhaustion in her tone.

Amy takes off her pale, nude coat and sits down beside you on the chair, running her hands through her hair.

"We got lost," she sighs, "spent about two hours just wandering about."

"Why didn't you ask someone for directions?"

"I did! About a million people, but it felt like I was just walking around in circles!" She huffs.

"How did you get home?" You ask, batting Pauline away as she tries to stick her boiled sweet into your mouth.

"I ended up having to go in somewhere and ask," she moans, "it was embarrassing. I wanted people to think I was local, but I ended up looking homeless."

You laugh and she bats your arm playfully,

"Seriously though," she sighs, "it was a nightmare. I thought I was never going to get back."

"Well you did in the end," you say, then tease, "we're going to have to put a SAT-Nav on you next time!"

"Ha ha, very funny," she rolls her eyes, "luckily the lady who gave me directions was nice enough to walk me back here, otherwise I'd probably still be lost."

"She walked you all the way back to the hotel?" You raise an eyebrow, "That was nice of her."

"I know," Amy says, "I think she was going to meet someone, so she was heading out anyway. We even got chatting a bit. Apparently she owned the pub I went into for directions..."

You're barely paying attention to Amy as Pauline constantly distracts you, pulling on your hair and urging you to play with her. Meanwhile Amy continues to talk enthusiastically, and you nod because it's all you can think to do, then suddenly she says,

"So, is that OK for you?" She's looking at you with wide eyes, "I know you have work."

You can tell you've not heard a lot of what she's said, but you don't want her to repeat it all, so you nod affably and smile,

"Yeah, sounds good."

Amy's face brightens up and she grins. You know you've given the right answer.

"Great! Well get ready, 'cause we leave at 7."

Your face drops.

"Wait, what?"

"Dinner," Amy clarifies, "she invited us out."

"Who?" You furrow your brow, immediately giving away the fact that you weren't listening.

"Ste!" She scolds.

"I weren't listening, OK!" You admit, "Tell me what's going on."

She looks at you and shakes her head,

"I told her we were visiting and she invited us out for dinner," Amy says, "it's just a casual thing, it won't be long."

You let out a sigh,

"What does she want to go out with us for?" You ask, wondering why the Hell a stranger would be so accommodating, "all she did was walk you home, you're not best friends!"

"She was nice," Amy pouts, "and she insisted. She told me to bring everyone."

"Do we have to?" You moan, "I've got a long day tomorrow."

"Ste, it's only dinner," she says, "besides, if I'm going to be spending almost a month in Dublin it'd be nice to get to know someone! I need to have Pauline in bed, so we can come home as soon as it's done, I promise! I just felt like I couldn't say no."

"Fine," you sigh, then kiss her chastely on the mouth, before standing up, "where are we meeting her then?"

You suppose you can spend a couple of hours chatting with this woman, whoever she is.

"We're meeting her at her pub," Amy says, "she told me it's not far from here."

"No problem," you nod.

You don't know why the Hell you didn't put the pieces together, but you didn't. It seemed too impossible, too completely out of the laws of coincidence, but you wish you had. You wish you had had more brains, because then you wouldn't be here, in this pub, standing with your wife and child while Cheryl looks at you like a deer caught in the headlights.

"You two know each other?" Amy smiles, seemingly oblivious to the awkward tension in the air, "how?"

You say nothing, lips sewn together, as if afraid to utter a word and let all your confessions come tumbling out. Cheryl looks at you with wide, startled eyes and you realize that this was the last thing she expected as well. She looks at you, then at Amy, then bursts out into unexpected laughter. The sound makes you jump.

"Well isn't this a coincidence?" She says, putting one finely manicured hand on your arm and pulling you close, "Ste here used to be at this pub every night, didn't you love?"

You look at her, eyebrows raised so high they're practically touching your hairline. You glance across the pub, nervous that the Irishman is going to step out any moment, but when you don't see him you smile and nod at Cheryl,

"Yeah," you say, then turn your gaze to Amy, "yeah, every night. Love it here, me."

"Wow, that is a coincidence!" She smiles, then reaches down to pick up Pauline, who is tugging at the hemline of her skirt, "How strange! It's a small World, isn't it?"

"It's a small city," Cheryl adds, face still stretched in an overly enthusiastic smile, "I'm always running into people I know. Can't walk down the road without bumping into someone."

You let out a small sigh at the sheer truth of that statement. You cannot avoid the Irishman and his sister even if you try...and you _have _tried.

"So," Cheryl continues, as if still trying to get her head around the situation, then turns her gaze to you, "this is your wife?"

"Yeah," you nod, "this is Amy."

Cheryl then looks at Amy,

"and...he's your husband?"

"Yes, four years now," Amy smiles, then looks at Pauline, "same age as this one."

"Aw," Cheryl reaches out a hand and pinches her cheek, while your daughter scrunches up her nose, "she's gorgeous, isn't she? Just like her mother," she looks at you, then adds, "and father, of course!"

You laugh, but you feel uneasy. You try to keep an eye out for Brendan and you can't help but feel like a floundering seal in the ocean, waiting for a Great White to appear from the murky depths. You want to get Amy and Cheryl out of the pub immediately, maybe then you'll be able to avoid seeing Brendan. You panic at the thought of him and your wife coming face-to-face, especially when he made it so clear he never wanted to see your face again.

"So, are you ready to go?" Amy asks, looking at Cheryl expectantly.

"Yes, let's go," you mutter, trying to rush them both out before Brendan appears.

"One moment love, I just need to grab my purse and call my Dad," She looks at you, "I need to make sure somebody is here to look after the pub while I'm away."

You wait anxiously as the blonde goes to retrieve her bag, and the low hum of the half-filled pub does nothing to soothe your nerves. Amy looks at you and mistakes your anxiety for irritation, so she says,

"We won't be out for long, just an hour then we can go home."

"OK," you nod, eyes darting through the room for a sight of him. You're not sure if you're trying to avoid seeing him, or if you want to see him more than anything. You smile tightly, "that's fine."

Finally Cheryl appears and you manage to get out of the pub without running into her brother.

The night goes by fairly quickly. You all go to a small restaurant not far from either the pub or your hotel, and you actually manage to relax a little as it becomes apparent that Cheryl is not going to spill any details about your previous time in Dublin. Everything seems to be going fine, until Amy suddenly says,

"Do you run that pub all by yourself, Cheryl?" She asks, astounded.

You freeze at the sudden, dangerous turn in conversation.

"Oh no," she says, sipping from her third glass of red wine, "are you kidding me? I couldn't run that pub single-handedly to save my life! It belongs to my Dad and my big brother. They're the brains of the operation."

"Oh, so it's a family business?" Amy asks, intrigued.

You remain silent and take a gulp from your pint of beer.

"Yes," the blonde nods, "don't get me wrong, I love my job, but those two may as well not have a life. That place _is_ their life! Especially Brendan..."

Your heart stops at the mention of his name. Cheryl's tongue has grown looser after three glasses and you feel on the edge of your seat as she becomes less restrained about her choice of words. You worry what she might tell your wife.

"Brendan?" Amy asks, and the sounds of his name on her lips feels wrong, "Is that your brother?"

"Yes, that's him," she smiles, nothing but pride, "he loves that damn place. It's his life. Suppose he's got nothing better to do," she shrugs, taking another sip from her glass.

"Addicted to his work then, is he?" Amy asks, smile twisting her lips.

"Oh yeah," Cheryl nods, picking a limp chip from the side of her unfinished plate and chomping down through the centre, "I always say to him 'Brendan, you need to get a life, because it's just _sad_,'" she bursts into laughter.

"That's what I keep saying to this one," she nods her head in your direction, "I can't get him away from work for a moment. That's the whole reason we're over here!"

"Oh really?" Cheryl asks curiously, staring at you with a raised brow, then muses, "guess that's something they've got in common."

You stare at her, eyes locked, then you turn away and take a deep breath in. What was once a relatively pleasant evening has very quickly turned into a living nightmare. You wonder if Cheryl knows about the fight you and her brother had the night before, but you highly doubt that Brendan would be the sort to discuss it. He told you that his sister knew nothing about you both for a fact, all she had were suspicions, and all you could do was trust his word.

"Mummy," Pauline suddenly speaks, twisting her blonde mop of hair around her tiny fingers with a look of boredom plastered on her face, "can we go now?"

"Soon, sweetheart," she says, an undertone of warning to her voice, "we're still talking."

"But I'm tired," she says, emphasising the statement with a yawn.

"Maybe we should go," you say, taking this as your opportunity for escape, "I have an early day tomorrow, ya know?"

"Wait wait," Cheryl says, sitting up quickly with the expression of a hurt puppy in her big, blue eyes, "I can't let you both go without coming back to the pub for a drink. On the house!"

"No, no," you immediately fire back with no room for questioning, "we can't, seriously. We can't do that."

"Why not?" Amy asks, brow furrowed.

"Because..." you pause, then quickly say, "I have to work in the morning, don't I? Also Pauline is tired, we can't take her into a pub!"

"Ste, it's nine o'clock, I'm sure you can manage one more hour before we head back," Amy turns to look at Pauline, who suddenly looks wide awake as she amuses herself by taking ketchup from the trays in the middle and smearing them onto her plate, "and Pauline is fine. We won't be long."

"Amy-" you try to argue, but the look on her face tells you that there's to be no argument.

"Come on! For old time's sake," Cheryl urges you, "Just one drink, then you can go home. I insist!"

"I..." You feel heavy under the weight of their permanent gaze.

For a moment you worry about running into the Irishman in the pub. However, you remember Cheryl mentioning earlier that her Father would be behind the bar tonight, so at least you know the Irishman will not be serving. If you have to go to the pub, tonight is the best night to do so without running into Brendan.

Finally, you sigh,

"Fine. Just one, then we go home."

xoxoxo

As you walk into the pub, every sense in your body is on fire. Your eyes immediately flick behind the bar, and sure enough Cheryl's father is there serving drinks, just like she said he would be. The pub is hiving as always and you have to shove past the patrons to find a seat in one of the booths in the corner of the room. Amy slides in first, then Pauline in the middle and finally you at the end. Cheryl asks you both what you would like to drink, then runs off behind the bar to retrieve them.

You turn to Amy,

"Right, just one drink yeah, then we need to head off," You try to make it sound like a demand, but it comes out as a plea.

"What is up with you?" She asks.

"What do you mean?" You try to act nonchalant.

"I mean you've been on edge all night!" She exclaims, "What are you being so weird for?"

"M'not," you sulk, "I just...I'm tired, in't I?"

"Well _wake up," _She says, her stern face turning into a smile as Cheryl arrives and hands her a tall glass of white wine, "thanks!"

"And for you," Cheryl turns and hands you a glass of beer, then hands Pauline a carton of blackcurrant juice, "there we go!"

She sits down opposite you and Amy, blonde curls tightly spun on her head before she pulls them back into a ponytail. She smiles at you both, then leans over to take a sip from her glass of Coke and Vodka through a straw,

"Ah, that's the good stuff," she grins, "I've been gagging for a stiff drink all night."

"Must be nice," you say, "working in a pub, you can get all the free drinks you want."

"Brendan hates it when I take drinks," she rolls her eyes, "he says they don't pay for themselves. Big bastard."

You think back on all the times he offered you a drink free of charge, and it makes your cheeks turn hot. The mention of the Irishman makes you drink your pint faster in an attempt to flee the place quickly. By the time you're finished, Amy has barely touched her giant glass of wine.

"Are you finished already?" Amy asks, blonde hair swishing as she quickly turns her head to look at you in shock, "That was fast!"

"Yeah well, I was thirsty, weren't I?" You nod and sniff, head buzzing from the speed of the alcohol flowing through your system, "You nearly done?"

"I've barely touched mine!" Amy exclaims, picking up her glass and pointing to it.

"It's OK love, here, I'll get you another," Cheryl leans over to pick up your glass.

You move forward to stop her, when suddenly a hand comes out of nowhere and picks up the frothy glass from out of Cheryl's reach. You hear a familiar, Irish brogue coming from behind you, and the words from his mouth tickle your ear as you hear a voice say,

"Allow me."

You don't have to turn to know who it is and a shiver runs up your spine. Amy turns in her seat, startled by the sudden interruption, and you see Cheryl's face twist into a grin of happy surprise,

"Brendan!" She beams, "What are you doing here? I thought you were going out?"

"Came back early," he says, and you can practically see the smile on his stubbled face as he turns on the charm, "excuse me for interrupting."

"Don't worry about it love, sit down!" Cheryl pats the seat beside her, the alcohol making her slur her words slightly, "Come join us! You'll never believe who I ran into today!"

"I think I will," you hear him mumble, loud enough for only you to hear.

You look up at him then, eyes fixed on his form, and when you catch sight of his pale face and black, stubbled chin you feel your breath catch in your throat. He looks down at you, eyes burning with something you can only guess to be fury, because the expression on his face gives nothing away. You can hear his voice in your head from the night before, telling you to stay away, yet here you are back in his domain. You wonder if he wants to throttle you on the spot, but whatever it is he's thinking he hides it well, as a wide smile breaks out on his face. He rounds the table until he's standing at the edge, looking down at all of you, your beer glass still clutched tightly in his hand.

You can't help but let your eyes travel down his body, clad in the same grey jumper he had on this morning when you saw him in the restaurant during your meeting. You remember Amy telling you that Cheryl was leaving the pub to go meet someone that morning, and suddenly you realize she was probably leaving to meet him...

"Look who it is," Cheryl points at you and Amy, finger wagging between you both, "This is Ste's wife! Can you believe these two have been married _four years?!"_

"Must've been babies," he smiles, then looks at Pauline, "and who is this?"

He leans down over you, the side of his body pressing into your chest, and you wonder if he's doing this on purpose as some sort of way to punish you. You look through the side of your eye as he pinches Pauline's cheek and lightly grazes his knuckles over her face. Pauline is normally shy around strangers, but you marvel as she leans into his touch, before nervously blushing and hiding behind Amy's arm. Amy laughs,

"I think she likes you," she smiles, eyes twinkling in his direction, "I'm Amy."

"The lovely Amy," Brendan shakes her hand, smiles, then adds, "good to see ya."

"Course, you know Ste," Cheryl says, pointing to you.

"Oh yes, Steven," he says, and he reaches out, hand poised in mid-air to shake yours, "good to see you, mate."

You look up at him, eyes burning holes into his head because you can't deal with this false display. You wonder why he bothered to come over to the table, why he didn't just avoid you when he saw you there, but then you realize that Brendan Brady is not the type of man that would ignore you. No, doing that would mean letting you know that your presence bothered him, and he would never let you have the satisfaction.

You smile back, barely able to let it stick, and your heart is humming in your throat as you reach out and curl your fingers around his strong hand. It feels painful to touch him, to be this close, and you still want him just as much as ever. He lets go.

"You two know each other, too?" Amy asks, looking from you to the Irishman as if she can't believe it.

"We do. Been a while though, ain't it Steven?" He looks at you, letting the lie slip through his lips with ease. You wonder if he's lying to protect you or for his own amusement to watch you dangle, "How great is this? Old friends getting reacquainted."

You feel nervous as you look at his hand, fingers tapping on the edge of your pint glass. You can see his knuckles are white.

"Sit down, Bren," Cheryl insists, "talk to us a while!"

"One second Chez, I'll just go and get this refill for Steven," He says, "and a little somethin' for myself, as well."

You watch as he walks away, and it's only when he's out of sight that you can draw a breath.

"How handsome is he?" Amy says approvingly, eyes wide as she looks at Cheryl.

"Oy!" You turn to her, brow furrowed.

"Well he is!" Amy says, then smiles and holds your arm, "not as handsome as you though, Ste."

You hear them both giggle.

"Doesn't he know it, too," Cheryl says, sipping from her glass, "sometimes his head's so big I'm surprised he can fit it through the front door."

"Suppose he has girls falling all over him," Amy says.

Cheryl looks at her and smiles, then a small laugh rumbles out of her throat, and just as she's about to respond you hear the soft rumble of Brendan's voice as he sets another glass of beer in front of you.

"There you go, Steven," he slides it towards you, "drink up, there's a good lad."

You look at it with wide eyes, wonder if it's poisoned, then slowly pull it towards you and take a sip. You can feel his eyes on you as you do so and his gaze makes your skin prickle. You look up, but when you do his eyes are not on you. Instead, he's laughing at something your wife has said. You feel yourself glaring at the attention he's giving her.

You came to Dublin intending to keep these two sides of your life separate, but now a twist of fate has brought them both together in the most unbelievable way imaginable. Your body tingles in anticipation as you wait for the Irishman to say something to bring your whole World crashing down around you. _This is it, _you think, _it's all going to come out now. Everything. _You wonder if this is what Brendan had been waiting for all along, just waiting for his chance to drag you out of the closet and into the open. You can't even concentrate on what's going on around you, all you can do is sit and wait for him to drop you in it.

However, as the minutes continue to pass -first ten, then fifteen, then twenty- you start to doubt whether the Irishman is going to say anything. He continues to sit, clasping his beer in his hand, talking animatedly to your wife and Cheryl whilst laughing at their jokes. You sit in silence, watching his every movement with complete fascination.

"Have I got something on my face, Steven?" Brendan suddenly asks, tearing you from your daydream.

"No," you reply, a little too quickly, and a small blush tints your cheeks, "I mean...sorry, I just...no, you don't."

He looks at you with low, hooded eyes,

"Good," he says, "good."

Cheryl looks at you both and, even through her haze of drunkenness, you can still see that murky shimmer of suspicion in her eyes.

"Ste's probably just thinking about work," Amy says, voice light and breezy, oblivious, "he doesn't seem to think about anything else these days."

"That so?" Brendan retorts, then turns to Amy with a smile, "With a good looking woman like you at home, Amy? What man would ever be thinking about work?"

You look at him and there's a glint of hostile amusement in his eyes.

"Hear that, Ste?" Amy nudges your arm and laughs, then turns back to the Irishman and smiles, "have you got a girlfriend, Brendan?"

"_Brendan?" _Cheryl cackles, "That ship sailed a while ago."

Brendan rolls his eyes.

"What?" Amy asks, eyebrow raised.

"Women aren't really his thing," Cheryl explains, whilst her brother smiles tightly.

Your heart is hammering in your chest. You gaze up at him, but his eyes are on his sister, and all you can do is pray this conversation ends soon.

"Oh, so you're..." Amy drags off.

"He's gay," Cheryl finishes the sentence.

"Yes, Chez, thanks," Brendan replies sardonically.

"Oh!" Amy says, "I never would've...Oh!"

"Shocking, ain't it?" Brendan replies, voice holding a tint of amusement.

"Did you know that, Ste?" Amy asks, turning to you.

"He knows," Brendan replies before you can answer.

You look at him and he's staring at you intently. You swallow,

"Yeah," you try to smile, "I did."

"So, do you have a boyfriend?" Amy asks, her curiosity piqued.

"_Amy_," you mumble, but she ignores you.

A silence descends as Amy and Cheryl sit poised, waiting in anticipation for an answer. You try to hide your discomfort, but a twitch in your cheek betrays you,

"No," he replies finally, then shakes his head, "I don't."

A swell of relief runs through you. You don't know if it's because he hasn't given you away, or because he hasn't met someone else.

"Brendan's a player," Cheryl says, jokingly.

"Well you know me, Chez," he smiles tightly, "always looking over the horizon for something better."

Your heart drops. If his words were designed to hurt, they worked.

"Sounds like Ste with his work," Amy adds in, laughing.

"You're all work and no play, ain't ye Steven?" Brendan says.

"Isn't that a quote from a movie?" Cheryl interrupts, blue eyes darting around her head in deep concentration, "don't tell the name, I know it. It's a really old one."

"Don't hurt yourself, Chez," Brendan puts a hand on his sister's shoulder and she glares at him, "too much thinking ain't good for you."

"Shut up," she hits him on the arm.

"_Shut up_," he mimics.

"Brendan loves those really old movies," Cheryl turns to you and Amy, pointing a knowledgeable finger, "Y'know, the ones nobody's ever heard of?"

Brendan looks to the floor, shakes his head at his sister as if she's a head case.

"You're an old soul, aren't ya Bren?" She teases, ruffling his hair.

"You've had too much to drink," he says.

"Not enough," she corrects, taking another sip of her half-filled glass.

"My sentiments exactly," he says, standing to his feet, "I'm going to get another here. You guys good?"

You and Amy both nod.

You watch as he walks away, the shadowed contours of his body moving like a panther through the crowd. Everything within you wants to follow him, to explain to him why you're here, once again, even though he specifically told you not to come back. You wonder if he thinks you've done this on purpose, if he would even believe that your paths could collide once more out of sheer coincidence. You can hardly believe it yourself. Then again, coincidence seems to be the one force you can depend on to keep bringing him back to you.

"I'm just going to the bathroom a sec," you say to Amy, smiling, "won't be long."

You worry about what Cheryl might say if left alone with your wife, but you can't help yourself, you need to explain to him that you didn't plan to come here.

You walk through the pub and see him standing by the bar. He's got a whiskey on the rocks perched in his hand and he's looking at the bottom of the glass, deep in thought. You wonder if he's standing there to avoid coming back to the table.

You approach and, as if sensing you, the Irishman lifts his head and stares in your direction, as you quietly push past the last person that stands between you. You feel your pulse racing in your neck and, as his eyes focus on the fine skin there, you wonder if he can see it beating.

"Listen," you say, before he can open his mouth, "I'm sorry, OK? I know what you must be thinking, but this is all just a big mistake."

He looks at you with dark eyes, swirling the amber alcohol in his glass. He says nothing.

"I didn't plan this," you say, "Amy and Cheryl just bumped into each other-"

"I told you to go _back _to your family, not bring them here," he says, voice a low growl, trying to keep his fury contained "_why?"_

"I told you, I didn't know," you explain, "Amy came in here earlier to ask for directions and ran into your Cheryl..I didn't know...it was just a coincidence."

"Coincidence, eh?" He says, "that seems to happen a lot with you, doesn't it?"

"It's a small city..." you reply meekly, repeating Cheryl's words from earlier.

"Ye just..." he slams the bottom of his glass on the pub counter. The sound makes you jump, "ye just don't listen, do you?"

He steps forward into your space and you swallow deeply. You can't help but think he looks like an animal. He goes to walk past you, but without thinking you reach out and grab his arm, burning fury in your veins,

"You can't just blame all this on me, right?" You say, anger fuelling your bravery, "if you didn't want this to happen then why did you start all this in the first place?"

He stares at you, eyes scanning your face. You wait for him to reply, but he says nothing, so you continue,

"You knew I was married right from the beginning. You knew it!" You say, "So why did you even get involved?"

For a moment you think he's going to hit you, and time seems to stand still as the bustle of the crowd continues. In the back of your mind you're vaguely aware that Amy might see you, but you don't even care. You need to know.

"I guess ignorance is bliss," he says, then through gritted teeth he leans in and whispers, "but some things can only be ignored for so long...especially when you're determined to shove them in my face."

He shakes his arm from your grasp and you let go. Without another word, he moves back through the crowd.

When you return to the table, you can't look him in the eye.

You don't know how much longer you can sit here, trying to act natural. Amy and Cheryl are in the middle of a conversation and, when you can take it no longer, you quickly pipe into the middle,

"I think we better be heading off now," you say, turning your head to Amy, "Pauline needs to get to bed. It's late."

Brendan looks at you, then at Amy, before finally resting his eyes on Pauline. You see something in his eyes as he gazes at her, expression soft,

"You tired, sweetheart?" He asks your daughter, who is sitting beside you with her legs kicked out and her neck pressed into her chest, eyes heavy.

She nods.

"Cute," he mumbles.

"Do you have any kids, Brendan?" Amy suddenly asks, putting her arm around Pauline.

He looks at her, eyes misting over slightly, and you notice a small tick in his cheek. You stare at him carefully, then you look to Cheryl and see her eyes widen. She tries to interrupt, but before she can Brendan coughs and replies,

"No," he shakes his head, "no kids."

Amy opens her mouth, sensing the sudden shift in mood, and goes to say something. Before she can, the Irishman rises from his seat and says,

"Anyway, I'm going to head to the bathroom here, then I'm going to go to the staffroom and I will probably sleep there all night," he laughs, snapping back into the charming host as easily and naturally as breathing, "work doesn't do itself."

Cheryl looks at Amy with a raised brow,

"Nice to meet you Amy," Brendan reaches out and shakes her hand.

"You too, Brendan," she smiles.

You look up at him as his gaze suddenly falls on you. His blue eyes appear dark under the shadows of the pub, where the light fails to reach them. You feel something churning in your stomach as he reaches out his hand to you, and his face tells you that he is still furious. However, something else lies in his expression, something unfathomable, and it makes you shiver to the very marrow of your bones.

"Good to see you again, Steven," he says, keeping up appearances, words like honey against your ears even when you know he doesn't mean them.

You reach out, grab his hand and let your fingers linger on his skin. Underneath your palm you can feel the contrast of soft skin and hard callous, and the pure masculinity of it thrills you. Nothing can compare to touching him. You want to tug on his hand, pull him close...but you don't. You can't. You let go.

"You too," you say, then tear your eyes from him as he turns to leave.

"Chez, if you got a moment the Magners bottles need restocked," he points behind the bar, "chop chop."

You watch as he saunters away, broad shoulders and strong arms steady as he easily parts the crowd.

Cheryl watches her brother as he walks away, then turns back to you both with a small smile. Amy looks at her with wide eyes, then worriedly asks,

"I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

"No love," Cheryl reaches out a hand and squeezes Amy's on top of the table. You watch curiously, "it's not you, honest. It's just..."

Cheryl pauses, and once again she looks as if she's about to say something she shouldn't. However, the alcohol has loosened her tongue, and your heart is beating as you realize that the blonde is about to reveal something about her brother...something personal.

"What?" Amy asks, concern lacing her voice, "Oh God... I'd hate to think I offended him."

"You didn't, love," she shakes her head, "I think it's just hard for him. Seeing your Pauline there..." she nods towards your daughter, who has now fallen asleep, "It's not easy for him."

"Oh," Amy whispers, raising her eyebrows, "Why?"

Your mouth falls open slightly as you watch the blonde's tight mouth, trying to keep the words in but finding it impossibly difficult. You imagine Cheryl Brady to be one of those people to whom keeping a secret is as difficult as holding your breath underwater; she can only do it for so long.

"Brendan, he..." Cheryl says, and her eyes look close to tears, "a few years ago...he lost a child."

"Oh my God..." Amy gasps, "How?"

You stare at Cheryl, open-mouthed, completely speechless. Brendan lost a child? You wonder why he never told you. Why he'd never mentioned it when you were discussing Pauline and your life back in England. You feel your heart drop in your chest.

"It was cot death, it happened very suddenly," Cheryl sighs, "broke his heart."

You press a hand to your mouth, unable to contain the shock. You look over to the side of the pub and see the Irishman making his way towards his office and slipping through the door. Something clicks within you, triggering a memory, and you suddenly remember the night in your hotel room. You remember telling him that he didn't know what it was like to have kids. You remember the way his face fell and the devastation in his eyes, before he quickly composed himself. You realize now what that expression was...

"He doesn't talk about it much, but I know it still kills him," she says, "She would've been four now."

You glance at Pauline, imagine what it would be like to lose her, and you close your eyes. You wonder if seeing your daughter in the flesh intensified his choice not to see you anym2ore. Perhaps he saw it as a betrayal to the family he once had...the family he could have had. You glance towards the door of the staffroom one more time and everything within you wants to go to him, but you hold yourself back. You wish he'd told you himself.

"That is..._awful,"_ Amy says, "I can't even imagine. I'm so sorry for bringing it up!"

"Oh don't be," Cheryl says, "he went down a bit of a dark road after that, but he's doing good now."

You barely listen as Cheryl and Amy talk, but out of nowhere you ask,

"What was her name?" You look at Cheryl, unable to keep the despair from your voice. The thought that he had been through such pain, even if you didn't know him, makes you want to die, "Brendan's child. What was her name?"

"Niamh," Cheryl smiles, "she looked just like her Daddy. He can't even drive by St. Augustine cemetery anymore."

A silence descends among you as you soak in what has just been told. You can't get the image of it out of your head; him standing by her grave side, trying to hide his emotions behind a veneer of coldness. You think of it and the thought burns into you until you can barely stand it anymore. You want to go to him, to talk about it, but you know you're the last person he wants to see, so you don't. Instead, you quickly stand to your feet and insist that you all need to leave..._right now. _

Amy says her goodbyes, while you pick up Pauline and quietly mumble a farewell to Cheryl. You can't shake what she's just told you from your mind and the weight of it pulls you towards the Irishman more than ever. You want to hold him, comfort him from the past, even though it happened at a time when you didn't even know him. However, something else sticks in your mind about Cheryl's words, and once again you find your curiosity about him more prominent than ever. She said he went _down a_ _dark road..._is that the secret behind Brendan Brady's dark past? Did it stem from the loss of a child?

You don't look back to see if Amy is following you from the pub. You hold Pauline close, afraid to let go, and quickly walk out into the cobbled streets of Dublin.


End file.
